Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)
by Mistiec
Summary: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can't sleep, she'll think back and wonder why it'll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)**

**Author: Misty Flores**

Genre: Glee

Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)

Rating: M

Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can't sleep, she'll think back and wonder why it'll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.

Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10

Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.

AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5's 'One More Night'. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.

* * *

**Part One. You and I Go Hard At Each Other Like We're Going To War**

It begins with a slap. Of course it does.

Except maybe it doesn't. Maybe it begins with a twitch of bee-stung lips; with hooded dark eyes that hide a brimming loneliness almost (_almost_) forgotten when paired with blinding white teeth and a smile that is too practiced and plastic to be anything but manufactured.

It's Santana Lopez playing a part, you see. Just like when her best friend was closeted, miserable and mean. A return to form for the Kentucky cheerleader, now stunning in ways the Cheerios outfits never allowed.

It's ridiculous to Quinn that she's the only one who sees it.

But then again, maybe she's the only one who possibly could.

Quinn's reality is a fabricated fantasy. She's known too much heartbreak in her young life to even think it could be anything else, but she has indulged herself because she wants so badly to believe it.

So she plays the part. Quinn, who will forever try to escape the ghost of Lucy, is over-confident and over-compensates. She secretly marvels that no one sees it. Her friends, who self-professed family who claim to know her best, listen to her bragging with not a doubt among them. They look so damn proud, so happy for her as she weaves her tales of success. They see the image she creates and it's addicting. It's so much better than the truth.

In Kitty's worshiping eyes, Quinn finds her bliss and the chance to remodel her history.

That same group sees Brittany and Santana as two halves of a whole. They don't remember, or possibly never knew, that before Brittany skipped into high school as a sophomore with her rainbows and sunshine and quirky insanity that captivated Santana so effortlessly, it had been Quinn and Santana that had been attached at the elbow. Best friends since cheer camp freshman year; an uneasy alliance formed due to a determination to rule the school.

It's not the same. With Brittany, Santana is marshmallows and fluff, dimpled besotted smiles and sweet loving affection. With Brittany, it's love.

It's not love with Quinn. It's not soft or sweet and even though Santana's dimples poke through her olive cheeks when she leans over the piano and regards Quinn with her plastic smile, the impact of her beauty fades thanks to the pure rancor in her expression.

They slap each other. Of course they do.

In Santana, Quinn remembers every mistake; every weakness. Santana's smile cracks with her own insecurity, and yet she's the only one who knows exactly what to say, using her words as a well sharpened scalpel, digging deep inside of Quinn to stab at the very heart of her, causing so much pain she's caught breathless, left gasping like a choking fish.

Santana's palm imprints on her cheek. The flesh is swollen and heated, and stings when hot angry tears slide over it.

Quinn leaves Brittany with Santana and walks through those familiar hallways alone.

She thinks about Santana and her mask of pain and loneliness.

She wonders why she hates it so much.

* * *

Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can't sleep, she'll think back and wonder why it'll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.

But how could it, when it began with a slap?

* * *

New Directions loses Sectionals for the first time since their inception sophomore year.

It's almost surreal; the way Quinn feels so outside of this. The rest of the mentors, her fellow graduates, look as stricken as the kids who actually performed. She keeps to herself at the back of the room, delicate arms folded across her chest as she wonders when high school became so _young_, when it felt that these kids are so absorbed in their own petty problems that seem so miniscule and ridiculous in comparison to what she and her fellow graduates went through. A girl has fainted and even still, the others shift the blame and conceit among themselves. Brittany, who looks oddly younger than she ever has before, huddles closely to Sam. He looks so proud of that fact that he neglects to notice the longing and jealous looks Brittany's blue eyes float across the room to Santana, who is currently focused instead on her own mentee, Marley.

Quinn's mouth twitches with distaste. This is the girl who was supposed to be the new Rachel? She's young and frail, and at Sectionals, where Rachel swallowed her nerves and blasted out the most amazing rendition of 'Don't Rain on My Parade' Quinn's ever heard, this one collapsed at the back of the stage before she even got her chance to open her mouth. Marley just looks so damn _young_, her pale face crippled with shame and regret. In this room, Santana and young Puck Jr. are her only protectors. With her palm pressing gently against the small of Marley's back, Quinn's 'friend' whispers quiet words into Marley's ears that are probably meant to be reassuring.

Quinn supposes she should feel sorry for Marley. She knows from experience that the pressure to carry a lead at Sectionals can be intense. She can only imagine how much harder it is coming off a win at Nationals, with expectations at an all-time high.

She doesn't feel pity. Instead, all there is is an odd sort of apathy. It's an unsettling experience. To be here, to be in this choir room and feel absolutely nothing is something she never quite expected. She thinks of Yale; old brick walls and vines that wrap around buildings, musty libraries and David, with his booming voice, his pipe and his rough calloused hands.

Quinn is a young girl from a small town who in the scope of things, perhaps doesn't know very much at all. Her classmates together have so much more world experience, so much _knowledge_. They stare at her with her small town hair and small town clothes and see a child. In her first few months at Yale, Quinn has never felt so small and unimportant. It's why David is a godsend. David is the first to see her as a desirable woman, and not this damaged child. He calls her an old soul. He makes her feel comfortable and at the same time so regal and beyond herself. The temptation and euphoria fits her like a glove.

Here in Lima, nothing changes. She stays in a tiny bedroom in her mother's house that is full of nothing but disappointing memories and a wheelchair stuffed in a closet that's saved for a 'just in case' relapse.

She understands now, what Rachel meant when she emailed her and told her that Lima just did not feel like home anymore.

It's curious. The only times she's felt anything resembling affection and nostalgia since her return happened on that empty stage, during an impromptu Unholy Trinity performance, and later in a conversation that devolved into a slap fight between her and Santana.

Mr. Schuester claps his hands together, drawing the attention of her peers. "Come on!" he sighs, defeat in his voice as he waves his palm to the door. "We need to be good sports and get out there; congratulate the winning team." In light of how they lost, it seems slightly ridiculous, but true to form, his students file out. They're quiet and devastated, a funeral march that passes by her. The suddenly maternal, oddly passive version of Santana glares at Kitty and gently helps Marley up off the seat, handing her off like a gentlewoman to Jacob. In the action, her eyes catch Quinn.

Quinn arches a brow, but does not move.

Neither does Santana.

The choir room is quiet in the absence of the rest of the group, odd considering the sheer amount of songs that float regularly through this place. Still, Quinn feels no inclination to break the silence. Sooner or later, Santana will speak because that's what Santana does.

She waits, watches those deep brown eyes as they regard her. Santana's full lips quiver in her emotion. This has upset her, which is interesting. Santana never used to care about anything but Brittany.

"You know, your girl did this," she breathes, pointing an accusing finger in Quinn's direction.

It makes Quinn want to laugh. "Having fun beating that dead horse, Santana?" she responds lightly, pushing off the wall and making her way easily toward the piano.

"Quinn, this is serious." Santana remains on her plastic chair, but her eyes follow Quinn's every movement. "Marley is sick."

"And Kitty's magically responsible, how?" she asks blithely. "Might want to check that Mexican third eye, Santana," she drawls, "because all I see is a scared little girl who couldn't handle the pressure."

She settles against the piano, tinkering with a key or two, plonking an awkward melody. This is the point in their many confrontations where Santana will say something absolutely devastating. It'll be a crack about David, maybe something about her past obsession with appearance. Whatever it'll be, it will dig deep inside of her, prick her into feeling.

It's what she expects. God, it's even what she wants.

This apathy that courses through her is odd, but it's also a terrifying.

Glee Club used to be her safe place.

Now it's just a room.

And yet, Santana proves to be a disappointment. When Quinn hears nothing, her eyes lift and she discovers Santana staring at her with an expression on her face that makes Quinn feel like she's looking at a stranger.

"What the hell is going on with you, Quinn?"

The tender, disappointed way she asks nearly chokes Quinn's breath away. Her fingers jerk against the keys, causing the note it creates to wobble like a bad ending.

"Nothing's wrong with me," she snaps, but her words are stiff, and her posture tense. "For once in my life, everything is going exactly how it's supposed to. Maybe I'm just over all this petty high school crap."

She lets Santana soak it in. Hears a choked laugh and a sudden sardonic, "Whatever Quinn." The chair grinds against the linoleum. "If a girl with an eating disorder is just too petty for you, then by all means, feel free to go back to your professor and your X-rated study sessions."

A small, pained smile floats on her face. "At least it's better than going back to short skirts, pom poms and being too much of a coward to admit you broke up with your girlfriend because you were afraid she'd cheat on you if you didn't."

The barb is well placed. She sees it hit Santana with a jerk, watches the shoulders stiffen and the body falter.

But Santana says nothing. She doesn't engage. Instead, this woman who used to be her best friend flexes her wrists and keeps walking until she's out of the choir room.

Quinn's mouth trembles when she realizes she's been left behind.

* * *

Logically; rationally; she understands completely that Santana is lost. She's heartbroken and insecure, hiding behind her quasi-celebrity status at Louisville, pretending that it's enough even though she doesn't have the stage that made her feel alive or her girl that made her feel loved.

It's not.

Santana gave up the stage so she could be closer to her girl and gave up her girl because Brittany felt abandoned.

Maybe it's selfish of Quinn that she has made no attempt to push past Santana's erected walls.

That's what a best friend would do.

Maybe she's not as good of a friend as she thought because there's an ugly bit inside of her that feels the smallest amount of satisfaction that this is the state of things. Brittany and Santana, two halves of a whole, self-declared soul mates, barely made it two months before the real world got a hold of them.

The Unholy Trinity. Besties for Life. Except that Brittany is a freaking Peter Pan incarnate who is so scared of growing up she literally failed her senior year to avoid it and screwed over her so-called soul mate in the process. Santana is an out lesbian internet celebrity who wears this mature, bitchy façade like she's so damn wise, but she's too afraid to do anything but wave a pom pom for hollering meatheads and crash high school musicals.

Is the jealousy petty?

To stare at Santana's beautiful face and try to remember that one moment when Quinn realized that no matter what, Brittany would always be Santana's first choice?

To think about those moments before Brittany, when Santana's gaze would linger too long on her own body, her own face, her own lips? To wonder oh-so-fleetingly how those looks had terrified her in a dangerous, frightening way, flushing heat through her body and terror in her soul?

Maybe.

But it doesn't matter because Quinn's better than them. She got out. Quinn made it. She's moved past her teenage pregnancy and quietly fighting that homo-erotic fascination with Rachel Berry and paralyzing car accidents to become more than just a cheerleader, more than Quinn Fabray.

She did it without the Unholy Trinity and their so-called friendship, forgotten so easily when Santana fell in love, linked pinkies with Brittany and left her behind.

She leaves Santana in her Kentucky purgatory. Quinn has her own life, and she goes back to it.

* * *

Her pristine, gorgeous life holds steady for approximately two weeks after Thanksgiving. In that time, she's promised a Christmas in Vermont. David thumbs his pipe and spins a gorgeous tale of a wooden cabin and dirty sex on a bear rug in front of a fire place.

In truth, the allure of David has faded quickly. Time away has given her some perspective, and David's class actually helps as she realizes that when she first arrived at Yale she was lonely, scared and out of her element. The first friend she made was a professor who listened and regarded her as woman. At the time, it hadn't mattered when he had given her champagne and pressed up against her in his office. She felt worthy and validated.

His beard, previously magnetic and interesting, now feels scratchy and intrusive. His hands, before so weathered and strong, now feel rough and abrasive. The secret liaisons that proved so thrilling during the semester now feel dirty and shameful.

He grows careless. He forgets to take off his wedding ring. He's not interested in her theories or her opinions as much as he is interested on getting her on her knees, unbuttoning his fly along the way.

Santana's words ring through her, but she tells herself that is not the reason for the shift.

Still, her only alternative is going back to Lima and watch her mother drink herself into a Christmas stupor.

She chooses Vermont.

Two days before Christmas, David sends her a text message that states the plans fell through, and he must spend the holiday with his wife 'for appearances sake'. It will make the divorce 'less messy' if he just does what she wants.

Quinn wonders how she could have expected anything different.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, she sits alone in a cold dorm room in New Haven, reading a novel called 'Divergence' when there is a tentative knock on her door.

Quinn puts down the book with weathered resignation. She's expecting Nina, a pretty German Pre-Med coed who couldn't afford to fly home for the Holidays and spends so much time in her books she has no idea that Quinn has gained a reputation as the girl who fucks her professors. She seeks her out for the occasional movie and some friendly company and Quinn is always grateful.

It's not Nina that stands in her hallway.

Instead she sees a woman bundled in an expensive trench coat, glossy black hair curling under her fur hat, with a small suitcase trailing behind her.

It's someone she has not spoken to since Thanksgiving.

"Santana," she breathes dumbly, so confused there's nothing else she can say.

Santana's mouth opens for a moment, then closes just as quickly. She shifts her balance on her ridiculously high heeled boots and bites on her lower lip as she musters enough false bravado to snap, "Are you going to let me in or not?"

She looks… small.

It's then that Quinn remembers a Facebook post announcement made just a couple weeks ago, in terribly misspelt words and all caps that stated to the world that Sam Evans had finally landed Brittany Pierce as his new hot girl soul mate.

Her douche ex actually used the word 'finally' (or FINALEE, if she's being literal), like the coupling was inevitable.

Since then it's been picture after picture of him and Brittany Pierce, cuddling and kissing and Sam gleefully telling the world that they just 'brammed'.

She understands immediately why Santana is standing in her hallway in New Haven and not in a hallway in McKinley back in Lima, Ohio.

Without a word, she pulls on the knob and widens the opening, allowing Santana to push her way past her, back into her room and into her life.

* * *

They were the Unholy Trinity. They were supposed to be besties for life.

That's absolute fiction.

Even though Quinn and Santana have exchanged cutting words and painful truths, even if they have scratched and bit and slapped each other, it's the dark horse Brittany Pierce that has come from behind and managed to mangle Santana Lopez with thoughtless actions and words in such a damaging, devastating way that Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted.

All it takes is a stupid facebook post about a Mayan Apocalypse and becoming Sam Evan's Mayan Star Wife.

She fucking married him.

Screw the Unholy Trinity. Screw Brittany.

Quinn sits on her absent roommate's bed. She watches Santana, notes the bags under her eyes, the way her thin body shudders, the way Santana has no words in her, no way to explain why she's here, or why she could possibly think that this is okay.

She's a passive shell of the person she used to be, and it makes Quinn remember the Santana of senior year; the one who went through shit and who had so much anger but who finally got the girl, got to be who she really was, got to sing on that stage at Nationals.

God, it pisses Quinn off so much.

Maybe it isn't logical, to blame Brittany like this. After all, Santana is the one who dumped Brittany. And maybe someone could argue that Brittany is just trying to cope with losing Santana the only way Brittany in her Peter-Pan Unicorn world can. Maybe she's just trying to make Santana jealous. Brittany is rainbows and sunshine, but she can be manipulative as hell.

But the reality is that no matter how many slaps and scratches are exchanged between them, no matter how many sweet Unicorn smiles Brittany gives her, if made to choose, Quinn will always choose Santana.

She's never actually voiced it. She doesn't like to think about it at all. If she does, she manages a quick justification, that she knew Santana first, that Santana was HERS first.

She was hers until Santana was Brittany's, and this is what Brittany did with Santana and her unwavering loyalty and love.

What's left is this dejected, broken woman who looks like a girl. Santana sits on the floor, back resting against Quinn's bed as she stares at the wall like a catatonic zombie, eyes too dry to cry, fingers rubbed raw from rubbing against each other, because that's what Santana does when she's insecure and nervous.

If this is some fucked up way to wake Santana up and get her to come back, then fuck Brittany Pierce, because what she's done instead is destroyed her and left Quinn to pick up the pieces.

And if she's actually serious; if she actually believes that the world is ending, and the first thing she did was marry Sam Evans instead of tracking down her supposed soul mate and spending her last days with HER?

Fuck her more.

The Unholy Trinity is a crock.

It's utter shit. Quinn doesn't know what to do.

She bites down on her lower lip, hesitates only a moment before she pushes off the bed and crosses the room. With deliberate, slow movements, Quinn lowers herself until she's seated beside Santana.

Her eyes do not stray from that wall, but Quinn's fingers shift carefully, until they're sliding over cold, clammy hands. She doesn't look as Santana's palm overturns; their fingers interlock, a desperate movement of absolutely trust.

Quinn's sucks in a shaky, hesitant breath.

She knows she's a buoy now, clinging onto Santana to keep her friend from drowning.

It's just Santana and Quinn now, just like it was.

Quinn's just fine with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two. You and I Get So Damn Dysfunctional We Stopped Keeping Score**

Her dorms are abandoned for the most part, and silent. Quinn's reading playlist, a mix of classical music and the soul soothing jazz, streams from her computer before the machine goes to sleep from lack of activity. When the music fades, all she can hear are soft thuds and whistles, weather from outside.

Sometime in the course of the afternoon, the other woman has fallen asleep, tipped over and slumped into Quinn, beaten it seems by sheer exhaustion. She's so tired she snores lightly, breath flowing evenly against Quinn's collarbone, head heavy against her shoulder. Santana's fingers stay entwined with hers. When Quinn shifts, she twitches and tightens the hold.

So Quinn doesn't move. Even when her leg tingles, threatening to fall asleep, and her back aches, she stays put and with her free hand reads from the book she manages to pillage from the bed they're resting against. It's awkward when she tries to shift the pages, but she manages.

Santana's perfume lingers, but the travel has mingled the scent with the outdoors and the slight musk of sweat. Quinn's focus is distracted from her pages when she glances over and notices Santana's flaring nose, her fluttering eyelids. Even from this angle she's gorgeous and for the millionth time Quinn is overtaken by the effortless natural beauty of her friend.

Santana's chest rises and falls, her breasts push against her white button down. From this angle, Quinn has a fabulous view of Santana's perfect man-made cleavage. She looks now, eyes dragging like fingertips over the soft skin, bulbs that shift at this angle against each other. The nude of Santana's lacy cups cover only where the color begins to shift, near Santana's nipples. They're perfect, gorgeous breasts, and Quinn's breath catches at the sight of them.

It's funny to think of the disdain she felt the day she found out about the operation. Quinn, who literally carved herself a new face and identity, was so disappointed in Santana, her model of perfection.

She betrayed her for a Captaincy.

It's so stupid now.

Steps float down the hallway, slow at her doorway, before she hears a knock.

Santana stirs, and Quinn winces as she moves. Brown eyes open, blink sleepily before they focus on her face. Quinn's heart pounds oddly before she whispers, "I have to get the door."

Santana's lids are heavy from her nap, but she moves off of her. Quinn's foot tingles with actual pain as the blood begins to recirculate. She doesn't look or feel very graceful as she hobbles to the door. Her fingers twitch.

She can feel Santana's eyes at her back.

* * *

It's Nina of course, who smiles brightly and asks in her charming accent if she feels up to some take out. Quinn is left with the awkwardness of having to explain her sudden companion without giving too much away, and thankfully, Nina seems only mildly disappointed. She wishes her friend a Merry Christmas and shuts the door, closing her and Santana back into her tiny room.

In the time it takes for Quinn to quietly dismiss her friend, Santana has picked up her half-read book. When Quinn turns back, she discovers Santana thumbing through the pages haphazardly, losing Quinn's place before the other woman dumps the book back on the bed.

The action annoys her. She decides she's tired of waiting.

"So," she begins, palms pressed flat against the door as she regards the sleepy, weepy Santana. "Are we going to talk about this?"

Santana's head lifts. She's a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed and frightened.

Their eyes lock and hold.

It's Santana that looks away first.

"I need a fucking drink. Does this hellhole have a bar?"

Quinn's chin lifts.

* * *

They brave the chilly New Haven cold long enough to get to Firehouse 12, a bar she was taken to on her first night out with David. Quinn smiles her way past the bouncer with her fake ID (there is absolutely no surprise that Santana has her own) and then leads Santana into the brick building and downstairs to the dark, secluded bar. It's Christmas Eve, and the only patrons are college orphans and singles who nurse drinks and practically radiate depression.

And now she's just like them. In a bar on Christmas Eve with a girl who may as well scream 'Needy, Desperate and determined to Drink and Fuck the Pain Away.' Awesome.

The couch they curl into is intimate and comfortable. Quinn unwinds the scarf from her neck, eyes narrowed as she observes Santana already snapping her fingers, ordering a shot of ice cold Patron.

Wow. Starting early. Quinn exhales and when the waitress glances at her, orders her usual champagne.

"Uh yeah, no," Santana snaps, and shakes her head belligerently. "Bring her a shot."

"The champagne is fine," she says firmly, eyes on the waitress so there is no misunderstanding. "Thank you."

"Seriously?" Santana asks in the wake of the departing waitress, full lips pouty and annoyed at Quinn's square, polite order.

"Yes, Seriously," she answers evenly, and then falls silent, eyes on Santana as the other woman glances over the bar, observing the tiny corners, the dark shadows, the romantic ambiance of the bar. "How many times have you given your Nutty Professor hand jobs on these couches?"

Her body flushes, her cheeks stain. The anger ripples, and oddly, Quinn fights it. She's not in the mood to start this. It's too soon. The image of Santana, broken and fragile on her floor, is too fresh. "Not once."

"Pity," Santana remarks, brow arching at the response. "Because that's probably what he wanted when he brought you here."

For a lesbian, Santana knows men pretty well. Quinn finds herself fighting a slow, sad smile. "It wasn't for lack of trying."

Santana blinks, thrown at the candor. Quinn is rewarded with a blinding, sinister smile of her own. "Yeah?"

Quinn's fingers brush against her palm as she nods, tucking her feet underneath her as she accepts the champagne from the waitress.

"God, what an asshole."

Quinn doesn't disagree. Her eyes linger on her friend, watches long fingers curling around the shot glass, tipping liquid into her puckered mouth. Santana's tongue darts out, licking any lingering moisture from her bottom lip.

Santana immediately asks for another.

Quinn has yet to take a sip of champagne. "So this is what you're going to do," she finds herself saying, chest heavy with the realization. "You're going to drink yourself into a stupor just to avoid talking."

The liquor seems to have improved Santana's mood. She licks tequila from her finger tips, sucks on a lime, and avoids looking at Quinn. "What, do they not have keggers at Yale?"

The second shot comes. This time, Santana orders another immediately. The waitress glances uncertainly at Quinn. The glass presses against her mouth, and she nods silently. She isn't Santana's keeper.

The champagne bubbles on Quinn's tongue. She takes a hard gulp, and steels herself. "You don't get to do that, Santana," she says quietly. Santana's eyes flicker at her, then dart away. "You showed up at MY door, remember? Without warning, without notice."

Santana nearly misses aim as she sucks down the drink. She giggles, catching the spilled tequila with her fingers, and swiveling. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaims, all dramatics and insincerity. "Did I just totally infringe on your super amazing Christmas plans? Because I don't exactly see Professor XXX hanging around. Or anyone for that matter."

Quinn lets the sour taste of the champagne linger on her tongue. "Why would I need anyone when I have you to be with, sucking down three shots in five minutes?" she asks sweetly, before the champagne glass comes down.

Santana falters. Her curls bounce as she stares at the last shot that is currently between them. Her eyes, now glassy from the liquor taking affect, shine brightly. "It'll be four unless you take this one from me."

She grabs hold of the shot, and with an impish smile, raises it in Quinn's direction.

It takes a moment to sink in.

Quinn's eyes flicker from the shot to her friend. "Are you kidding?" she asks, disbelief coating her voice with frustration.

"Nope." Santana's damn tongue comes out one more time, before she sucks it in the back of her mouth as her smile grows wider. "Come ON, Quinnie," she whines. "It's Christmas Eve! Look, I'll even help!"

Quinn is unprepared when Santana shifts in closer. Her champagne sloshes all over as Santana lifts and lowers herself on Quinn's thighs, settling her weight onto Quinn's lap.

"Santana!" she squeaks. "What the hell?!"

It's Christmas Eve, and Santana Lopez has straddled her in a bar. Quinn bucks, but Santana rides her easily, and just the very idea has her heart thumping hard against her chest.

"Nope!" Santana says, with this crystal laugh that reminds her so much of high school. The button down shirt once again pulls her focus. Santana's breasts brush up against her chest as she smiles, that shot glass dripping liquid down Santana's fingers. "Open up. I'm helping."

Logically, rationally, she understands that this is Santana trying to distract her. Drown her pain and avoid the problem. Classic Santana. She studied this in class. She did.

"Santana, this isn't funny." Quinn doesn't know where to put her hands. Santana's thighs blanket her own, keeping her pinned on the couch. Her friend's forehead is tipped against hers, and her breath smells of liquor and mint.

"If you don't drink it, then I will." Santana's shoulders lift innocently, and it's blackmail. She's blackmailing her.

Dammit.

"It's just one shot Quinn," Santana says, the very devil herself.

Quinn's fluttering hands finally settle on Santana's waist. Santana's hips rotate against her own. It makes her eyes roll, her cheeks flush. She knows Santana's watching her intently.

It's just one shot.

"We need to talk eventually," Quinn breathes, but Santana's smile widens, because she knows she's won this.

"Merry Fucking Christmas, Quinn," she whispers, and then fingers are smoothing against Quinn's chin, applying just enough light pressure to tip burning cold liquid into Quinn's mouth.

Quinn's fingers twitch and tighten. Her eyes water and the sensations overwhelm her as the sour lemon wedge is pressed into her mouth with liquor soaked fingers. Her tongue brushes against Santana's fingers.

"God that was hot, Quinn."

She's immediately lightheaded, and so involved in recovering from the shot she has no strength to argue when she hears Santana call out, "I need two more."

* * *

She doesn't know how much time has passed. It could be twenty minutes. It could be an hour. What she does know is what it feels like to have Santana drag her tongue slowly against the column of her throat. She knows the feeling of sticky, salty residue against her skin. She's familiar with the weight of Santana's small body and how it curls against her, and she knows her tongue is numb with lime and liquor.

She also knows that she's drunk.

What she doesn't know is how the hell they got back from the bar, or why the hell she's shushing Santana so loudly when there's no one in the actual dorms.

"SHH!" she says again, because it still feels terribly important. It's not important enough, however, that she can't help but dissolve into giggles immediately after. "No, seriously, shhh!" she says, and laughs again when Santana crumbles against her in a fit of laughter. "This is YALE!" she insists, ever the model of decorum. "We have noise rules and stuff."

"Shhhh!" Santana agrees and presses her salty, lemony fingers against Quinn's lips.

Santana's fingers taste delicious. They taste really delicious, and that is NOT supposed to be what she is thinking.

It's really annoying that that's what she's thinking.

She's battled the annoyance the entire night, because the part of her that's still lucid recognizes that she is an angry drunk.

It's so hard to battle it now. Santana's beauty has never seemed so insurmountable before. Santana's never been this close before. Santana's never smelled this good or tongued salt off of Quinn's throat and whispered how hot it was in Quinn's ear.

Santana's fingers have never been this delicious.

"Fuck," she hears, and it's only then that she realizes that she has actively started to suck on Santana's fingers, tongue swiftly moving over each digit to get the taste off.

Any other time, it would be absolutely hilarious, the effect is has on Santana.

She's the picture of a trembling art piece, a colored canvas brought to life but held still by the artful brushes of Quinn's tongue against her skin. Glossy, beautiful doe eyes focus so intently on Quinn's mouth.

Quinn's teeth snag hold of her index finger as she swipes against the side of it delicately. A low whine rumbles from Santana's throat, and it sets Quinn's body humming.

Oh.

She loses control when Santana's fingers plunge in again, sinking into her mouth with such purpose it's astonishing. They pull back and push in again, and Santana groans.

It's then, as Santana's forehead tilts against her chin, her hips press Quinn against the door, that she realizes what they're doing.

Santana is fucking her mouth with her fingers.

That's what they're doing.

It might be okay. Maybe. Maybe this is just an inevitable conclusion, because it feels so good, and Quinn's grinding hips agree with her. Her core burns with need and when Santana presses her knee against her, sparks snap in her brain and nearly cause her to crumple against her door.

Fuck, she wants this. She wants where this is going. The unforgiving, relentless pressure of Santana's hard thigh, pressing so violently against her it's almost painful. Santana's fingers slide out of her mouth with a wet pop, smear saliva down her cheek before her lips are slanting hungrily against Santana's.

Instead of a finger sliding inside her mouth, she gets Santana's tongue plunging in with purpose and intent. The moan that rips out of Quinn is embarrassing, but she can't even begin to care. Not when Santana's lips slide hotly against hers, not when she's sucking on that dangerous muscle that is so often Santana's most dangerous weapon. It's a dirty, lewd first kiss, and Quinn's violent drunken impulses take hold when she fumbles between them to rip at Santana's damn distracting button down shirt, tearing it open to get her hands on Santana's perfect breasts.

"Oh, crap! Sorry!"

It's not Santana who says it. Quinn's eyes fly open, but in her drunkenness state her reaction timing is slow, and it takes a moment to register that it is Nina who is backpedaling down the hallway so quickly she nearly trips on her own boots.

Oh. "Crap," she whispers, heart beating wildly. Quinn's head falls back against the door as she feels Santana's body shake with mirth against her, head curling into Quinn's shoulder.

At least she thinks it's mirth.

"Santana," she begins carefully.

The brunette head lifts. Dark, wounded eyes streaked with tears stare at her morosely.

It's not mirth.

The realization sinks her heart. "Are you seriously crying right now?" she asks, disbelief making her voice go wobbly.

"No," Santana sniffles and it's so pathetic, so… stupid that Quinn's anger surges with her intoxication.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?!"

Santana's tears are free flowing now, all that pain that manifests itself in those liquid drops. "I'm sorry! It's just… I haven't… I haven't done anything with anyone since-"

Oh God.

The realization brings with it such an acute nausea that Quinn has to close her eyes to keep the bile from rising. "Brittany," she breathes. "You're crying over Brittany." Her fingers curl into fists. Her body flushes with absolute shame. "You're such an idiot, Santana." And she's an idiot too. Her body is crusted with salt and wetness, a literal manifestation of Santana's sadness.

Quinn feels so stupid. "She's not even worth it," she breathes, because she can't help it. She's so damn ANGRY, and she knows that it could be because of tequila, but it's not just the tequila. Not now. Not when her supposed best friend was just ready to fuck her against the door and was weeping her way through it because of Sam's Mayan Star Wife. "You know that, right?"

Weepy Santana chooses that moment to try and grow a spine. "Don't say that! She is!"

It's like a kid insisting that Santa Claus is real. It's that pathetic.

Quinn swivels, fumbling for her key card and jerking open her door.

"She's an idiot," she tosses behind her. "And you're an idiot for loving her."

She gets two steps inside before a shove at her shoulder blades nearly causes her to slam headfirst into her desk.

"Take that back!"

Oh, hell no. Quinn steadies herself and whirls. She doesn't think twice before she grabs hold of the girl and shoves her hard against the door. Santana stumbles, crashes and barely manages to stay on her feet.

And still, she glares, moisture in her eyes making them sparkle like angry jewels. She's infuriatingly beautiful in her faith, jacket and shirt splayed open, torso on display like a taunt of what Quinn will never have.

"It'll be a cold day in hell, Santana."

"It's not true!" Santana snaps. "Take it back!"

Quinn laughs. She can't help it. It's just too stupid and pathetic and why the hell should she care so much? "Then why the hell are you HERE, Santana?" she snaps. "Why aren't you in Lima? Oh, that's right! Because she's just spent four days having an End-of-The-World-Sex marathon with the Blonde Forest Gump!"

Santana flinches and it makes Quinn happy to see it. Santana has no recovery quip now. It's just the weepy tears that coast silently down her cheeks.

"What were you going to do?" she asks suddenly. Her voice seems smaller, tighter. "Just sleep with me and pretend it's her?" Santana swallows hard; looks away. "God," Quinn breathes, because … wow. "That's what you were going to do, weren't you?"

"No!"

The tears are stinging her eyes too. She's wounded, and gasping for breath.

"Quinn, that's not why I came-"

"Fuck you, Santana," she snaps, because she can't hear anymore. Not now. "Just get the hell out."

"Quinn, please. That isn't true -"

"I said get out!" she snaps, and she doesn't wait. She strides fast and hard to Santana, and in her strength gets the better of her, shoving hard to open the door.

"I came because I needed my friend!"

She doesn't want to hear it. "Santana-"

"Quinn, I lost my scholarship."

The statement is so unexpected, comes out of nowhere so quickly, Quinn loses her strength. She falters, loses her grip on the door and Santana.

"What?"

Santana just stares at her, half naked and trembling. "To Louisville. Thanksgiving was the last straw. They said if I missed another game I would lose it, and I did. I'm off the squad; I'm out of the school."

She's stunned. The words make no sense, and as they sink in, Quinn doesn't know what to do with them.

"I came because I needed _you_. Not because I couldn't go see Brittany. I came because I didn't know what else to do. Quinn, I'm sorry." Santana loses steam. Her face crumples in her emotion, and she sinks into herself.

Santana sobs on her carpet, alone and scared and with nothing in the world.

Quinn has no direction. No manual that will tell her what to do. She has no point of reference for anything except the observation that one of the people she loves most in the world is curled in a ball on her floor, crying like her very world has ended.

And maybe it has.

Quinn's heart trembles, shudders and sinks deep within her.

She shuts the door, hears it click behind her, and then feels her knees give out. She sinks into the floor, and watches Santana cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three. I'd Be Waking Up In The Morning Probably Hating Myself**

Quinn isn't quite sure what to do, but she does understand her situation and what has led them to this point. Santana is a weepy drunk and she is an angry one. Even without those two particularly annoying character traits, they have a volatile friendship, and the result was an explosion, a confrontation, and Quinn's first foray into exploring her own apparently fluid sexuality. Still, it's a terrible time to discover that there has been an underlying attraction to her friend brought to the surface when faced with a lapful for Santana and a lot of tequila.

Quinn's heartbeat quickens, and she remembers now quite vividly the sensation of her mouth plundering Santana's; how her fingers so eagerly rounded the curves of Santana's breasts.

Her fingers twitch with phantom feeling.

She may freak out about this when she's sober.

As it is, Quinn's liquor-soaked brain can only concentrate on a few things. Namely, two: her inconsolable uninvited houseguest currently curled in a fetal position on her carpet, and the fact that her down jacket which keeps her rather toasty outside is now making her uncomfortably warm inside.

But that, at the very least, she can do something about. Closing her eyes for a moment, Quinn steadies herself and then with oddly uncoordinated fingers, she unzips her jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders and letting it bunch at the small of her back.

It's a relief when cool air hits her skin. One problem has been solved.

Across the floor, Santana's sobs have reduced to sniffles, but she seems to have not adopted Quinn's strategy of cooling herself down, because aside from the open jacket and shirt, she remains bundled up, looking like a lewd Artic stripper.

Right.

Quinn's teeth grind together, because honestly, the liquor is helping, but not nearly enough to not remember that this is a very serious, very screwed up situation, and she's had way too many of those for an 18 year old young woman.

Is this what Sam meant by rich white girl problems? Because she's going to punch him the next time she sees him.

Pushing against the door makes her head swim slightly, but it sets Quinn in the right direction, half crawling and half shuffling past Santana to get to her drawer. She's grateful for her OCD quirks, because it's easy to locate an extra set of fleece pajama pants and a tank top.

When she turns, Santana's head has lifted. She's regarding her with that same doe-eyed fearful look that prompted Quinn to open the door to her before, and this time it's made worse with the raw swollen lids and tracks of tears.

She makes Fantine in _Les Miserables_ looks downright chipper.

"Here," she says, and then inches forward, determinedly not looking at Santana's face as she grabs hold of her and pulls her into a sitting position. Santana's purposely heavy. She sniffles slightly, but she allows herself to be manipulated. It feels so out of character, so… vulnerable, that Quinn shakes her head to avoid thinking about it and grabs hold of Santana's jacket, shoving it ceremoniously off her shoulders.

It's like playing with a really beautiful, really pathetic doll.

Santana's in her arms now, upper body bare except for that damn nude lacy bra. She smells like tequila and Quinn's perfume.

Ten minutes ago, they were almost in this exact same situation, but the result would have been very, very different.

God, this is stupid. Quinn shuts her eyes, purposely blind to the other woman and her tragic, addicting beauty.

"Put this on," Quinn mumbles as the clothes are placed in Santana's lifeless fingers. She turns away and fishes out a pair for herself.

She won't abandon Santana, of course she won't, but at this moment, drunk and out of her element, Quinn doesn't want to think about what exactly that means.

Santana is purposely placed in her absent roommate's bed. Quinn places a glass of water by the night stand, and sucks down a bottle of it herself, despite the fact that she knows it means she'll have to get up in the middle of the night to pee, a habit that started when she was pregnant and something she's never been able to shake since.

The midnight breakdown has left Santana exhausted and emotionally naked. There is none of her usual bravado. She's aware Quinn is avoiding looking at her and it's clearly affecting her.

Quinn is too tired, too raw, to care. She turns off her lamp and invites the darkness of the night.

"Quinn." It's a soft voice, devoid of strength that whispers into the void. "I'm sorry."

Normally, Quinn complains about her awkwardly shaped mattress and her scrawny down comforter. Tonight, she finds comfort in it. Her back turns away from the woman she's hauntingly aware, and she tries to sleep.

No matter what tomorrow brings, this Christmas Eve at the very least, is over.

* * *

It's a fitful night of sleep.

Quinn's eyes open in the early morning with an immediate urge to pee. Sluggish with exhaustion and sleep, it takes a moment for her to realize that this is because a hip connected to a warm body is pressing on the exact area.

Santana, she realizes, has joined her on the twin-sized bed. She's curled into her side, arm splayed against Quinn's chest as her breath flutters across Quinn's collarbone. Brunette hair sticks to Quinn's mouth. Her hands have unconsciously spread against Santana's waist, and when she shifts, her forearm brushes against Santana's breast.

She's not wearing a bra.

Any irritation or wonder at the liberty taken is ignored over the fact that Santana is pressing on her bladder and Quinn really has to go pee.

She's not as careful as she could be with an unconscious girl. She shoves at Santana almost brusquely, and though she hears the brunette's breath change, awareness coming in her movements, Quinn simply pulls back the covers and grabs her keycard, heading for the bathroom.

The bathroom is stark and quiet, always creepy this time of night. Quinn's head pounds. She's freezing, shivering as she sits on the cold toilet.

She made out with a girl. Not just any girl. She made out with _Santana_ against a door.

Santana's lost her scholarship to University of Louisville, Kentucky.

She made out with Santana _against a door_.

And now she's woken up with an armful of Santana, and you don't have to be Freud to understand what she has become to the other woman.

A replacement.

"God," she whispers, a frustrated and frantic groan, and palms her face roughly. Her heart is hammering now. The goosebumps that prickle on her skin aren't just from the cold anymore.

In her haste to leave her room, Quinn forgot to wear slippers, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.

This is stupid.

Her shoulders square when she finishes. She sucks in her breath and she heads back to her room, swiping her keycard with practiced quickness.

She has her resolve, ready to push Santana up and off her bed, reclaim her space and reestablish her boundaries.

The order dies in her throat when she realizes her bed is empty. Momentarily stunned, Quinn feebly searches the room until she sees a lump buried in her roommate's mattress. Santana's turned away from her. All Quinn can make out is a mound of blankets and a mass of black hair.

It's disorienting, to say the least.

Did she imagine it?

She shakes her head, tries to rid herself of the insanity, and rushes her to bed, suddenly freezing.

The spot on her bed is still warm, emanating a body heat that shouldn't just be hers.

Quinn curls into her side, and eyes her roommate's bed. She has no strength to ask the unspoken question, and in the end it doesn't seem to matter, because Santana never moves.

* * *

It's a rude awakening on Christmas morning; loud blaring digs into her brain and causes a frustrated growl because her alarm clock is apparently unaware that her weekday 6:30AM preset does not count when Christmas falls on a Tuesday.

Still, it gives her something to focus on besides the ringing in her head and the immediate unpleasant flashback to the night before and her very glaring present problem: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Santana?

Quinn doesn't have the foggiest clue.

She can, however, slap at her Iphone and make it stop the horrendous noise.

Once she makes the noise stop, she immediately wishes she hadn't. With the quiet comes lucid sober reality, and her present reality is unlike any reality that has existed before it.

Once again, Quinn has thrown herself deep into a rabbit hole without any regard for how she is supposed to get herself back out.

If she wants to thank God for small favors, at the very least her hangover isn't quite the bear it could be. Quinn has learned the benefits of hydration since high school.

Hydration doesn't help with a sexual identity crisis, however. She won't figure out what to do with Santana by drinking more water.

All it'll do is make her pee more.

Santana. _Shit. _

Bleary eyes widen as she settles her gaze on her roommate's bed and finds it empty and made.

There's exactly enough time to manage a very private and very huge internal freak out over that fact when her door opens.

Santana.

Quinn's eyes close; her body sags with relief.

"God-dammit," she breathes and drags her fingers through her hair, a habit picked up when her hair was short, and much easier to muss.

"Hey." Santana's been up for a while. She's dressed in a pair of skinny black pants and a camo blazer, because like always the girl dresses for fashion and never actual weather. She's stays by the door, though why the hell she would decide she needs an invitation NOW is beyond Quinn's comprehension, considering she's been in and out of Quinn's dorm since she arrived and nearly made it in and out of Quinn herself.

"Hey."

Quinn has a habit of overthinking things. She's well of aware of that, and mostly she doesn't consider it a weakness. Life requires a strategy, especially a life such as hers. The moment she goes with instinct, she gets hit by a car or pregnant.

Santana, as always, is her exception to that. Quinn has always reverted to impulse with her, and the result is an uneasy friendship that is both fiercely intimate and chaotic.

Despite that, it's always remained a friendship. There was no room for sexual uncertainty in the midst of unplanned teenage pregnancies and joining a gang and being paralyzed from the waist down.

God, what the fuck is Quinn's life? Seriously? She should have been on Oprah with a self-help book by now.

Now a line has been crossed now that hasn't been crossed before, and in the face of it, Quinn doesn't know how to react. Maybe Santana doesn't either. She stays by the door, gorgeous and stoic, in her hands a brown paper bag with a 'Willoughby's Coffee & Tea' logo.

Quinn is aware that her make-up must be smeared. She's sure her mascara has caked and run and her hair is always wild in the morning. She must look like a mute idiot clown, covered in her blankets and splayed across her bed as she stares dumbly at Santana.

Instinct is no one's friend this morning and Quinn has no idea what to do or what to feel.

"That German chick told me about the coffee house." Apparently her lack of action is permission enough for Santana to come forward. The paper bag crinkles as Santana opens it, ruffling through the contents as she moves. "Can't believe they're actually open on Christmas! You Yale geeks must really like your coffee."

Quinn isn't sure if that's meant to be a joke. Santana swallows.

"Anyway, I got you a muffin, and some coffee, and um… some water with some pills," she says. Quinn watches as Santana's manicured hands place each of the pilfered items on the desk next to Quinn's bed, lining them up like little soldiers ready to go to war. "Cause you used to be a total baby about hangovers in high school and… "

She's rambling and nervous. Santana.

It'd be amusing if Quinn was in any sort of mood to find amusement in anything.

As it is, she's so overwhelmed all she can do is look at those items, at Santana's hands; watch the way those fingers wring against each other now that the bag is empty and Santana has run out of things to do.

"Santana," she starts, voice rough from a rough night. "Listen-"

"Quinn, wait." Santana settles on her desk chair. Her mouth is tight. Dark eyes that Quinn remembers so vividly watery with unshed tears are now dry, but what flickers behind them does so so rapidly Quinn doesn't understand it. Santana glances away from the searching stare, focus instead on her fingers. "Look, obviously I'm really screwed up right now and you didn't-" Santana stops herself midsentence, huffs in frustration and tries again. "You DON'T," she emphasizes, "deserve any of my madness. I know I just kinda threw stuff at you and it's put you in a really awkward position. I just… sorry."

Quinn is absolutely sure she's never gotten so many 'I'm Sorry's from Santana in the course of their entire friendship.

Santana's lost her scholarship. She's in Quinn's dorm room and they had a drunken make out session and Brittany's an idiot and there's no answers to anything.

"We need to talk about what you told me last night," she begins, but she's shut down almost immediately by the panicked expression that floats immediately on Santana's face.

"No."

Quinn rubs at her eyes, a moment of weakness because it's not her fucking problem to deal with. "Santana, I'm serious. You can't stay here forever."

"I know, okay?" Santana's voice wavers, but it's just for a moment before the other girl… woman… sucks in her breath and offers a stiff, valiant smile. "But not today. It's fucking Christmas," she says, like it should mean something.

It's Christmas Day.

"Yeah, it is," she agrees with a sigh.

This is her Christmas this year. A bottle of pills, a muffin , water and Santana shaking out two pills in her palm and holding them out to Quinn like some sort of twisted peace offering.

They're not going to talk about last night.

Okay then. That's better. That's good. If they pretend it didn't happen.

Quinn shuffles into a sitting position and without a word digs the pills from Santana's outstretched fingers. If there's a tingle when she brushes against the other palm, she ignores it.

Quinn does the only thing she can do. She pops the pills and drinks the water.

* * *

Apparently pre-med displaced Germans are Christmas nuts because Nina shows up like a freaking jolly Santa Claus with Sees candy, gabbing about Christmas movies in the common room. Quinn isn't sure when she and Santana have had time to actually bond, but apparently they're friendly.

That's a relief. The morning, despite Santana and her peace offering of a muffin and pills, has been awkward thanks to both efforts to ignore the very blatant problems they are both facing.

Nina doesn't ask questions, another good thing. She seems just genuinely happy to have the company. They pile onto the threadbare, dirty abandoned couch in the common room, sharing a blanket pilfered from Quinn's bed and watch _A Christmas Story_ on TNT. Santana cracks jokes and Nina finds them hilarious, and if Quinn allows herself to not think, then it really does feel like the night before didn't happen.

Except it did happen. She remembers every time Santana's hand accidentally brushes against her own, every moment she tilts her head a certain way and catches a whiff of Santana's scent.

It affects her. Her stomach sours and her body tingles and Quinn forces herself to ignore it because Gay Panic or unseated attraction to her very screwed up best friend is not something she has time for at this very moment.

She takes a call from her mother and ignores a text from David and a call from her father. Rachel texts to wish her a Merry Christmas, even though she texted to wish her a Happy All Religion Holidays a few days ago when Hanukah began, and invites her to New York for New Years Eve.

Quinn feels Santana's shoulder shift against hers and doesn't respond to the invitation.

_A Christmas Story_ ends and they move on to Chevy Chase's _Christmas Vacation_. Santana whines about how no one is playing _Elf _and when Nina has a moment of ignorance, they have to listen to a five minute diatribe about how _Elf _is the best Christmas movie to ever exist and that Will Ferrell is a comedic genius.

Santana in her conviction seems to glow. She's heard it before. Santana almost got into a fist fight with Puck last Christmas when he dared challenge her with _Home Alone_.

"He slaps them with a fucking hot iron!" he screamed.

"He tries to hug a fucking raccoon!" Santana spat back.

Just the memory makes her laugh.

Brunette hair tosses over her shoulder in perfect curls as she shifts and in that moment, her eyes lock with Quinn's.

She's just so damn beautiful.

Quinn's laughter chokes. Santana's smile stalls. Eyes flicker, focus, and Quinn is reasonably suddenly certain that Santana's attention is now on her lips.

The lurch that drops into the pit of Quinn's stomach is almost sickening.

"I think we're low on popcorn," she mumbles, and excuses herself.

* * *

She's by the microwave near the entrance to the Common Room popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher she found in the kitchen that looks so old she's pretty sure it's radioactive, when her phone once again vibrates.

The name of the picture that pops up is that of a Brittany S. Pierce. The picture that represents features Brittany with her arms splayed around Santana, giggling happily as Santana puckers a kiss in her cheek.

Puck swears that life ebbs and flows, much like a record. Many moments of her pregnancy and time afterward were spent in Puck's bedroom with his record player, listening to Bowie or ACDC and hearing Puck's impassioned pleas that if she listened carefully enough she could hear the static of the needle.

She never quite got it. It always seemed like Puck just being Puck, but she thinks she gets it now.

If life were a record, this would be the moment when the needle scratched.

Quinn's eyes blink up to Santana, who seems to sense her hesitation. She stares back, until Nina distracts her with some giggle about a Chevy Chase antic on the screen, grabbing onto Santana and forcing her to look.

The phone keeps vibrating.

Quinn isn't sure what possesses her to step out into the hallway to answer it.

"Hello?" she asks, voice purposely low.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" she hears, twin voices so loud and boisterous it makes her wince. It's Brittany, but there's a male voice that tunes in with her.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who that is.

"Merry Christmas, Brittany," she responds, because she's not exactly sure what else to say. Brittany's voice is so happy and full of life; this is her favorite time of year.

"Quinn, it's so good to hear from you! Did you get my Christmas card?" Quinn's chest tightens at the carefree nature of her tone.

Brittany is an adult, even if she acts like a toddler. She's not dating Santana anymore. It's not any of Quinn's business who the hell she dates and it shouldn't matter.

It shouldn't matter.

She sucks in her breath and expels it slowly. "Did you remember to mail it?" she asks, as polite and neutral as she can be.

There's a moment of hesitation. "… No," she hears finally, and her mouth twitches. "I did lick the stamp though!" Brittany says assuredly, but her voice tapers off as she shuffles in the background. She hears her muttering to someone who is not her. "Not sure where I put it because it's not on the card."

"Then no," Quinn says. "I wouldn't have gotten it."

"Bummer," Brittany mumbles. "It was totally cute." There's noise in the background, Brittany speaking to someone else before Quinn hears, "Sam says hi. Say hi, Sammy!"

That is something Quinn is NOT in the mood for. She distinctly remembers the urge to punch him the night before. "No, Brittany-"

"Hi!" booms Sam's thunderous, happy voice.

Quinn's eyes shut in frustration. She slumps against the hallway and once again edges further away from the Common Room. "Hi, Sam."

"Did Brittany tell you what happened? It was totally hilarious! We thought the world was ending so we got married-"

"Sam!" Quinn hears, Brittany's complaint loud and intrusive. "Don't-"

"No, but that's what's funny!" Sam insists. There's a scuffle on that side, distorting his voice slightly as he obviously struggles. "Turns out it was fake! The world isn't ending for like, two more years!- Hey stop!"

Quinn stays quiet, her mouth clamped shut as she waits out the lover's quarrel. Brittany's hissing intelligible words; Sam's arguing back, and suddenly there's a yelp and the loud slam of a door.

"Hey Quinn." Brittany's voice is out-of-breath, overly cheery.

God is it even appropriate to be as pissed off as she is?

This isn't about her. She shouldn't have anything to do with this. This is Brittany's dumb mistake. She shouldn't have any feelings about this at all.

Santana is in the Common Room. Santana, who sobbed on her floor last night and lost her scholarship so she could crash McKinley plays.

"You got married," she breathes, and thank God for Yale's drama program because it actually sounds like she's not itching to tear Brittany's head off right the fuck now.

"Fake married," Brittany says hurriedly. "It wasn't even legal – I mean I thought the world was ending so… " She fades off, losing strength in her words.

Maybe Brittany does realize how horrible this sounds right now.

Quinn doesn't have the patience to coddle her or even be polite. "Okay, well, Merry Christmas, Brittany. Thank you for the call-"

"No, wait!" Brittany's voice is suddenly high-pitched, almost desperate. "Listen, Quinn."

Quinn collapses against the wall in frustration. "What, Brittany?" she sighs.

"Have you heard from Santana?" God-Dammit. Quinn's chest tightens; her breath goes uneven. "Cause I've been trying to text her and call her to wish her a Merry Christmas but she hasn't responded or anything."

Quinn jaw is so tense she feels the ache in her teeth. Santana's voice filters from the Common Room. She's singing. The acoustics in the bare hallways are surprisingly good because the beauty of Santana's Christmas Carol comes through so clearly.

Quinn doesn't have the energy for this. Not right now.

Quinn covers the receiver with her palm and moves further away. "I'm sorry Brittany, I haven't," she lies.

"Oh." Brittany's voice is soft and disappointed. "Well if you hear from her can you not tell her about me and Sam getting fake married?"

Really? How the hell did she get stuck in the middle of this?

Because they're the Unholy Trinity. Starting together, ending together.

Right?

_God_.

Brittany must not like her lack of response, because she begins to ramble. "I mean, I know she said it was okay to see other people and it totally doesn't mean anything but I kinda… I'd want her to hear it from me. I don't want her to get the wrong idea."

Quinn sucks in her breath, and tries very hard not to throw her phone at the wall. "Brittany, you posted about it on Facebook."

"What? No I didn't."

"You did," Quinn snaps because she fucking did. "Sam posted about it and tagged you. It's on your timeline. So I can pretty much guarantee you Santana already knows."

It sinks in. "Oh." In one word, Brittany comes off as both devastated and terrified. "Do you think she'll be mad?" she asks in a tiny voice, like Brittany crossed the street without asking or something equally idiotic.

"Mad? About what? That you married a guy you've dated for a couple weeks even if it totally didn't mean anything in the state where it's illegal for her to marry you and then posted a paragraph on your facebook apologizing to all her angry lesbian friends? Why would she pissed about it?"

There's a pregnant pause. "Okay you sound like you're pissed about it."

Quinn can't take anymore. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Merry Christmas."

"Oh, Ok. Bye Quinn. Merry Christmas."

Quinn disconnects the call.

For a moment, she is beaten.

They were the Unholy Trinity. Besties for life.

Wow.

She presses against back against the cool wall, stares at the stark white of the ceiling. Santana's voice grows more powerful. It floats to her with the beauty of a haunting angel.

"_I've got to know where do lonely hearts go."_

Quinn closes her eyes and lets it seep into her.

_"Because nobody ought to be all alone on Christmas."_

* * *

"Where the hell did you go?" Santana asks, when she steps back into the Common Room. She's cuddled up on the couch with Nina, who is picking at the burnt popcorn and wrinkling her nose at the smell.

Quinn looks at her. "I got a call from David," she says after a moment.

"Ew." Santana's eyes roll with distaste before she says quickly, "There's nothing on TV. We're singing Christmas Carols. Let's sing Nina our version of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'." To Nina, Santana says, "It's freaking awesome."

And that's all there is to that.

* * *

They give up on singing when some scrooge on another floor files a noise complaint.

That leaves Netflix on Nina's 18 inch Macbook, and a host of bad ABC Family Christmas movies. They lose Nina to a Christmas nap halfway through this Jenny McCarthy movie called _Santa Baby 2._

She slumps back on the couch and sleeps with her mouth open, pinning them in such a way that they can't actually move.

The movie is horrendous, but Santana actually seems invested, so Quinn eyes the Common Room, notes the green and red 'wreath' cobbled together out of strips of construction paper and a popcorn garland someone tried to make before they clearly lost interest and just slung it over the doorway.

The little sputter of Christmas spirit makes her smile. Someone tried, at least.

It's a day of respite, and Quinn's glad for it. It's the three of them in the Common Room, and just for today, that's okay.

Beside her, Santana shifts under the weight of Nina, who now has her legs over both their laps. The movement causes Nina to sputter something in German that makes them both jump. Her bootied foot nearly kicks Quinn in the face.

"God," Santana giggles, a quiet laugh. "Merry Fucking Christmas, right?"

Quinn stares at her, looks at the dark brown eyes what wrinkle at the corners with the small smile on Santana's face.

"Yeah," she says, and something settles inside of her when Santana rearranges herself on the couch to better accommodate Nina's weight. Her head falls against Quinn's shoulder.

The movie plays on. Santana's fingers flicker against Quinn's forearm, an absent caress.

"What do you think about going to New York for New Years?" Quinn finds herself asking suddenly.

Santana's head lifts only momentarily. Quinn's eyes stay on the screen, watches Jenny McCarthy take a pratfall with a Santa hat on.

The weight of Santana resettles against Quinn. Santana sighs deeply.

"I think that sounds cool," she says quietly, so deceptively casual it's hard to believe it's not that easy all the time for them.

She decides that today, she'll take the illusion.

It's Christmas. So Quinn closes her eyes and allows herself to just breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Thank you so much for all the reviews, and for your support for this story. I haven't dropped the other two in progress fic, but when the bunny bites… _

**Part Four. I Stopped Using My Head**

Quinn isn't an actual dreamer. She has had moments of fantasy just like anyone else, when she's given in to her own weakness and allowed herself to forget all her scheming and calculating and just _wish_, but those moments have been few and far between. And quite honestly, those few and far between moments almost never turn out the way she thinks a dream _should_.

Very brief moments of introspection have caused her to admit (only if she absolutely has to), that sometimes that's because of her own actions. Quinn has never been the big believer of karma that some of her friends are, but she knows that at least some of her own misfortune could be considered a consequence for her own bad deeds.

And honestly, the same could very well be said for Santana. They weren't exactly saints in high school.

_Rachel_, their upcoming New York host, would be the first to witness to the amount of cruelty that both she and Santana are capable of when they truly try to be heinous.

She still doesn't know what it was about Rachel Berry back then that was so threatening. Rachel Berry was loud and annoying in all the obvious ways, but so were many awkward high school kids. And still Rachel stood out; such an the easy target - so easy to hate. Thinking back on it, maybe it was the fact that the Argyle-wearing-brunette was always so damn sure of herself. Rachel had purpose, even then, and was so proud of it, so open and unashamed, right at a time when Quinn (and Santana, it turns out) was so unsure, so lost, so terrified of her true identity hiding so delicately behind her hard perfect mask.

It was just too easy to see that confidence and resent it; attempt to break it.

Turns out, it's just as easy to admire it.

There does however, remain a tiny bit of herself that will always be perplexed that the first person she thinks to call and confide in is Rachel Berry.

It's not that she and Rachel are close... exactly. But there's an intimacy with Rachel that's happened almost despite herself. Sometimes it frightens Quinn, so she tries to ignore it.

Right now, she's so busy ignoring so much else she doesn't have the strength to do that with Rachel.

"So she's just... staying with you." Rachel's voice is hesitant, obviously trying to make sense of the situation.

Quinn can't exactly blame her. It's December 29th, and Santana has been with her nearly 4 days.

Enough of Santana's old habits have remained that they come back to Quinn easily. It means Quinn has time for this conversation. When Santana showers, if she's in the mood, she lingers.

Santana likes to takes her time.

Quinn finds herself shifting on the bed uncomfortably at the mental image that all too eagerly jumps into her head at the thought.

That's been happening much too often.

She casts a look on the door and feels her cheek flush hot against the phone plastered against it. "Basically," she admits. "My roommate's still out for her break so... Santana's just been sleeping in her bed."

It may require some effort to explain to Tabitha, her amiable but distant science-driven roommate who claims not to 'get' Quinn's major, why her sheets now seem permanently scented with a gorgeous brunette's Kate Spade perfume, but Quinn has decided to climb that mountain when it appears before her.

At least they smell nice.

"Okay," Rachel answers, still thinking this through. She sighs, all earnest dictation and thinly veiled confusion, "How does that quite... work?"

She gnaws on her bottom lip and considers the question. "Honestly Rachel?" Quinn hesitates, but can't help being truthful. "It's been kind of nice."

"Nice?" Rachel is audibly skeptical, because 'nice' and Santana don't usually belong in the same sentence.

Still...

Quinn glances toward the other bed, and notes the rumpled, sheets tossed haphazardly. It's something Santana has never quite lost, despite how 'mature' she seems to have become: her utter messiness. Brittany used to be lovingly amused by it. Quinn? Not so much. It's only been four days, but Santana's presence has already started to spill into nearly every part Quinn's dorm room. Just this morning, she found herself pulling out one of Santana's discarded bras from behind her desk, a barely there piece of expensive lace that Quinn has now had the pleasure of seeing ON Santana very recently in a very intimate way.

Not that it's the first time Quinn has seen Santana undressed, but it never seemed to undo her the way it seems to do now.

The tension that exists between them has more than a little sexual connotation and it's maddening. Quinn has always been aware of Santana's body. The other woman may lack Brittany's curves, but she more than makes up for it in toned muscle, ample (man-made, but still, even before the surgery Santana wasn't exactly lacking) cleavage, and an ass that's so magnetic Quinn has even caught Nina staring.

Because Santana is damn gorgeous, and apparently not even a straight German is immune because her friend appears to leak pheromones.

It's worse now. That awareness has taken hold of her in a way that it feels like an actual drug. Santana licks her lips and Quinn suddenly vividly remembers the way they tasted, hungrily suckling on her own. Santana leans in too close and Quinn is haunted by the way she smells, remembers breathing it in as she so wantonly pressed back against the hard plastic of her door. Santana types on her phone with her fingers and Quinn is struck with the memory of sucking those digits into her mouth, dragging her tongue against short fingernails, hearing Santana's breath quiver in response.

It won't go away and it's maddening and it makes Quinn think that her heterosexuality has been seriously undermined.

They don't talk about it. An unspoken understanding exists now, that even if eyes linger too long, even if glances cause accidental goose bumps, what happened between them should not be discussed. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But Quinn knows it happened, and she knows Santana does too.

In the time since, Santana has not once mentioned going to a bar for a drink.

Still, something has happened in the wake of that quiet, quasi-magical Christmas day. Quinn isn't really sure what it is or what it means, but the calm that befell them on that couch, when they were buried under a sleeping German co-ed and had no one but each other on, has never quite lifted.

It's a bubble that has lingered and not yet burst. Santana smiles now, quiet silly smiles that she shares with Quinn. They talk about anything but Brittany or Santana's lost scholarship and Quinn has quite purposely avoided any talk of David.

It's just the two of them now, in their little empty dorm at Yale, and it's not like it was, it never will be again, but it's been a long time since it's been just Quinn and Santana.

"It's hard to explain," she allows, because despite the many, many thoughts running through her brain, Quinn is still private and astute enough to understand that Rachel may not quite get it.

"I see." But God bless Rachel for trying. "Quinn," she hears, a brief moment later. "Please don't take this the wrong way. I think what you're doing for Santana is ... really amazing. She clearly needs a friend right now and it's only fitting that it's you."

Teeth dig into her lower lip, because it's obvious that Rachel is building up to something. "But?" she asks, nails digging into her palm in anticipation.

"But Quinn, what are you doing?" Rachel's tone is incredulous. Firm. "What is she doing? Has she even talked about what she's going to do?" Quinn swallows hard, eyes floating back to what she is now beginning to think of Santana's side of the bed. Santana's cell phone remains there, sparkly cover catching what little there is of the bleary New Haven light that shines in from her tiny window. "She can't stay in your dorm forever."

"I know that," she snaps, because obviously she does. She's not stupid."

"Does she have any sort of plan? What happens when your roommate comes back?"

The irritation is hard to quell, but Quinn tries. Rachel is just trying to help, in that Rachel Berry way of hers, and she's asking very valid questions that are exactly the questions that have been lurking in the back of Quinn's mind this entire time.

"We'll figure it out after New Years," she decides. She can hear Rachel's indrawn breath, readying for another argument. "Rachel, believe me the last time I tried to talk to her about it, it didn't go so well."

Much of what happened on Christmas Eve may have been attributed to the copious amounts of alcohol involved, and the fact that whatever Santana was feeling was raw and unfiltered. But Quinn isn't ready to take the chance that it won't happen again.

Not when she has the sneaking dreaded suspicion that if Santana suggests going to that bar again, she would say yes.

"This isn't a problem you guys can actually ignore. I get her not wanting to go to Lima, but..."

"But what?" she finds herself snapping. "Rachel what am I supposed to tell her? Her life sucks right now."

"It doesn't -"

"Yeah it does. It sucks." Rachel shuts up, and Quinn fights the heated flush of emotion that courses through her at just of the thought of the situation that Santana is now faced with. "I don't have the answers. I don't know how to fix it. It's..." she loses her strength, and her sentence dies off as a result. "You just don't get it, Rachel," she begins again. And why should she? Rachel was exactly where she was meant to be: at NYADA, a rising star. "You've always known who you are. You've never been lost."

It's a surprise when in response, Rachel issues a dry, sad laugh. "Quinn, of course I have. God, the amount of times that I've second guessed myself since I've come to New York-" she cuts herself off before Quinn can truly hear what she means. Instead, Quinn hears a sigh, a moment of introspection, before Rachel speaks up. "But I remember very distinctly Santana's words when I choked at my NYADA audition. 'It sucks, and I'm sorry. But these things happen.'It's part of growing up, and it's something we all have to do."

Quinn fights the bitter smirk that floats onto her lips as she closes her eyes. She thinks of Brittany; the way she's clinging so desperately to her youth and carefree immaturity. "Yeah, I guess."

"Santana is an amazing, _strong_, talented young woman. She'll figure it out, Quinn."

Everything Rachel is saying is the absolute truth. Quinn finds herself able to breathe, exhaling as her eyes open and she stares at her cluttered, Santana-infested room. "Right. Well, until she does, I'm not going to abandon her. We've done that to each other too many times. And now I'm all she has."

"You're not all she has," Rachel feels the need to point out. "She has other friends."

"Not like me," she says stubbornly, and she's not even sure what possesses her to say it.

It catches Rachel off guard. "No," she acquiesces with a soft sigh. "I guess not." There's a moment, a tiny beat, where Quinn isn't quite sure what Rachel is thinking, until the other woman sucks in a diaphragm full of air and rushes into her next thought. "New Years Eve is just two days away. Come up early if you want, it's not as if Kurt and I don't have the room. And we're excited to see you! Maybe once we're all together, we can all help Santana figure it out."

And she means it. Quinn knows she does. Rachel is sincere and happy and despite all that Quinn and Santana have put her through, completely ready and anxious to open her home and her heart to her two old Glee Club friends.

Quinn is overcome. "Rachel?"

"Yes, Quinn?"

"Thank you," she says, and means it absolutely. "You're an amazing friend."

Even now, Rachel seems unsure what to do with such blatant affection. Quinn can practically HEAR her blush and it makes her smile. "Well so are you," she finally responds warmly.

The door opens with purpose and without hesitation, because Santana may as well live here now.

Despite the fact that she knows she was coming back from the shower, for some reason Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted that Santana isn't wearing any clothes.

The shock that breezes through her causes her mouth to flop open like she's some character in an old cartoon. She very quickly takes in the sight of the other woman draped in a towel and nothing else. Santana's dark brown hair is so damp it's nearly black, and drops of water drip down the sodden strands, past her shoulders, before dangling from her pronounced clavicles to disappear between the valley of Santana's breasts that are only covered by a flimsy towel that looks ready to fly open from the strain of holding in her 'rambunctious twins'.

Holy cr-

"Give my love to Santana, okay? I'm so excited to see you guys." _Rache__l_, she realizes dizzily. Rachel is on the phone. Quinn blinks, sucks in her breath and thanks her Christian God vehemently for Rachel Berry as she tears her eyes away from her pornographic friend.

"Kay, bye Rach," she mutters, and disconnects the call. She feels like an idiot, but Santana doesn't seem to notice. She just hisses that annoyed cluck of hers as she squeezes her sopping hair over her shoulder, letting the water drip on Quinn's carpet. It's irritating.

"You couldn't do that in the bathroom?"

"Ha. And give those horny perverts a free show? That's the last time freaking time I go freebird in your damn showers," she snaps, glaring at Quinn like she's responsible for the state of the Yale dorm showers. "Why the hell didn't you warn me this place is Co-ed?"

Oh. Quinn's flushed cheeks crease with an amused smile. It's true that she, Santana and Nina have had this floor more or less to themselves for the past few days, but it's almost impossible to notice some of the other dorms, even with their closed doors, tend to emanate a rank 'boy' type of smell. Eventually, they would be back. And apparently Santana has given some of them a free show.

Serves her right.

"I thought it was obvious. And you never asked."

Santana shudders, tugging at her towel and flashing Quinn a lot of toned upper thigh while she does it. "Disgusting. You know, when I came out, I thought I was finally able to give up seeing any sort of dick that isn't made out of silicone."

And that's… that's just too much information. Way too much information.

Because now there are visuals, and remembering every single time Santana's thrust her hips a little too enthusiastically in Glee Club-

A sharp tingle races through Quinn so powerfully she's momentarily stunned by it. Santana has yet to actually put on her clothes. Her focus is instead on combing fingers through her wet hair, dripping on Quinn's carpet, and almost flashing her every few seconds.

Quinn decides it's time for a change in topic. "Rachel gives her love," she says with forced flippancy, reaching for her book.

"How sad is it that I'm actually really excited to see her?" Santana's got an embarrassed flush on her cheeks that Quinn used to think was just amiably charming and now fills her with so much conflicted affection her heart may actually burst.

"It's been years," is her dry response. "We gave up Prom Queen for her. I think we're allowed to say she's become a good friend."

"Um, wrong. YOU gave up Prom Queen for her. I just kept my trap shut about it. And if that ever comes up ever, I'll deny it." The warning glare that Santana gives her would be a lot more effective if the girl wasn't nearly naked and shaking a frilly lace thong at her.

Quinn smiles reluctantly. "Fine, we'll take that secret to the grave."

Santana nods, but she's distracted, looking all over the room, a lost expression on her face as she stares quizzically at her thong and then back to the bed.

With a muted sigh, Quinn reaches for the lost article of clothing she has recovered. "Are you looking for this?" she asks, holding up Santana's missing bra.

The other woman blinks, registers the article and immediately leans forward, snatching it from Quinn's fingertips.

"Where the hell was it?"

She's got a smile on her face, crooked and charming, with just enough sweetness to make Quinn catch her eyes and grin back.

Santana's phone buzzes and chimes with a familiar ringtone, insistent and demanding not to be ignored.

Quinn's eyes tear away from Santana as she watches the phone ring, hears the familiar tune of a song she had gotten to know very well when Santana and Brittany were dating.

_Songbird._

Even after their breakup, Santana has not had the heart to change Brittany's ringtone.

And she's there again. The third of the Unholy Trinity, making her presence known so easily. She fills this room, makes it hers; claims it with the same amount of ease that she's claimed Santana's heart.

Perhaps it's a moment of weakness; of jealousy, but Quinn suddenly hates Brittany for it.

It's such a strong emotion, so powerful it makes her breathless. But those shackles have been slipping from Santana's wrists, and with a ringtone, they've snapped back into place. Just like that.

Just so easy.

Love.

Quinn can't look at Santana. She doesn't know what to do. There is an unspoken agreement to not talk about this, but Brittany is calling and Santana is just standing there, looking at her phone with this expression on her face that is so haunted and conflicted.

Brittany is her best friend. Brittany is her soul mate. Brittany broke her heart.

She should encourage Santana to answer it. Brittany's call means the girl wants to talk to Santana, and Quinn knows that Brittany loves her. Santana sure as hell still loves Brittany. They could work it out. Somehow.

Quinn stays mute, and then suddenly the song isn't playing anymore.

Santana's let the call go to voicemail.

Quinn just sits, absorbed in the silence that follows.

"Heard from the horny professor lately?" Santana's turned away from her. She's lost the towel, along with her modesty.

Santana's back is all hard lines and smooth skin. Toned muscle ripples underneath it as Santana moves. She's in the middle of clasping the snaps of the bra closed, flicking the strap into place on her shoulder. Her thong is just a slip of white against tan skin and legs that look longer than they should be.

Her question sounds flippant and unconcerned. It sounds like just a question.

But there's no such thing as just a question with Santana. Though Santana sometimes loses control of herself and lashes out with violence, most of the time she battles with words, and this question, right now at this exact moment, means something.

Quinn doesn't know what it means or what Santana wants it to mean.

All she knows is that Santana's naked in her room, and Quinn is so very aware of it, but that longing that's begun to ache inside of her is physically painful thanks to the haunting ghost of Brittany, who lingers in the form of an ignored telephone call.

_She's mine,_ Brittany's ghost seems to whisper in her ear. _She'll always be mine. She'll always choose me. What are you doing, Quinn? Why do you always want to be second best? _

"No," she finally answers. "I haven't. Don't really care to, either."

It's an answer. Just an answer.

But wet tendrils flips off of shoulders and dark eyes blaze heatedly in her direction.

Quinn ignores the look, opens her book and does her very best to stare at the page, focus on the words and hopes like hell that some of it will actually sink in.

* * *

She's two chapters away from finishing her book. The climax has been building for quite some time, and when it happens, it explodes all over the pages. To Quinn, it came too early. The set up feels unsatisfying. There's so much in the world that's left to explore, and it feels like the author shot her load too soon, a premature ejaculation that feels unsatisfying.

Her eyes drift up, across the room to where Santana settles against her roommate's bed, playing Bejeweled Blitz on her phone with a lazy carelessness and sense of comfort that suddenly bothers Quinn terribly.

It's one more day, one more night, and this stupid bubble that's been waiting to burst.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do?"

Santana's fingers still. "What do you mean?" she asks, with such vulnerability and dread Quinn almost feels guilty over it. She's breaking their unspoken rules, and she hasn't wanted to.

There was something to this perfect little bubble of theirs, a heady peace that soothed Quinn in a way she doesn't quite want to understand yet.

She's so good at ignoring the obvious; demanding that it change to suit her.

She did it all through high school.

She can't do it anymore. Rachel's words ring in her ears and Brittany's ghost lingers and because of them, Quinn demands action.

The real world has entered this room despite everything and maybe it's time it did.

The book lowers into her lap, and she lifts her head to regard Santana with a quietly neutral expression. "I mean, what are you going to do?" Santana doesn't answer. Her friend just stares at her uncomprehendingly, like Quinn is suddenly speaking some sort of made up language; a deer stuck in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Quinn doesn't have the patience for that. Not right now. "Santana," she sighs. "You can't hide in my dorm room forever."

"You don't think I know that?"

Here comes the anger. Santana practically spits her reply. Quinn swallows hard and keeps her tone even. "Do your parents even know what happened?"

Santana's eyes return to her phone. Her game has long since been forfeited, but Santana plucks at the screen anyway, watching the little diamonds and circles and squares shift and tick into place.

Quinn can't stand it. "Santana. It's not the end of the world. You still have your mom's nest egg. Maybe-"

"Maybe I should just go." She pushes off the rumpled bedspread and grabs hold of her scattered jeans, tossing them on the bed without a second though. To them she adds a single Playboy minted sock, and begins to search for the other one. Santana's cell phone falls off the bed and lands with a thump on the carpeted floor.

Quinn finds her focus on that damn phone, and it breaks her from her quiet spectating. With an exasperated sigh she tosses her book and shuffles off her bed, crossing the room quickly and plucking up Santana's phone, depositing it on her desk. "Santana-"

The woman shrugs her off.

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm coming up with a plan," is the short reply.

"Storming out in a completely idiotic huff is a plan?"

"No!" Santana's luggage back is now open, and she's tossing in pants, shirts... another bra. "But it's obvious I've overstayed my welcome. And you know what?" she snaps, eyes stormy and dark with hurt. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, Quinn!? Because from where I've standing, your life isn't such hot shit now either. Unless you're hiding that stupid lesbian sorority in a closet somewhere, or wherever the hell Jodie Foster's clambake was supposed to be."

She's defensive and hurt and avoiding the point. Santana's acting exactly in character - backed into a corner, she's looking for an escape route. She's looking to run.

She's lashing out and waiting for Quinn to lash back.

Quinn's so fucking TIRED OF THAT. "Stop it," she growls in irritation, snatching a pair of shoes that Santana's just thrown into her luggage and flinging them off the bed. "Why do you always have to be such a bitch?!"

"It takes one to know one doesn't it, Q Ball?"

It does. Of course it does. This is what they do, snap and poke at each other like vipers because no one in the world will ever understand Santana better than Quinn, and vice versa.

It's terrifying to know that.

But she understands it. She does.

She understands _her. _ God, she wishes she didn't.

"Santana." Quinn's eyes are pinned on the frightened and angry woman beside her. When she reaches out, it's because of instinct. Her fingers close against Santana's wrists. The brunette jerks like she's been burnt. Quinn only holds on tighter. "You know I don't want you to go."

It takes only a moment of pregnant silence before Santana whirls, testing Quinn's sincerity with flashing watery eyes and a brilliant, cracked sneer. "And why do you care so much, Quinn?"

Santana is so captivatingly beautiful in the most haunted, terrifying way.

It's a testament to her diminished capacities that Quinn actually forgets that Tabitha is due to be back today until her roommate actually walks in the door, bringing with her such a cold chill that it freezes Quinn into place.

Tabitha holds a duffel bag and is chewing on a stick of gum, standing uncertainly as she stares at the two of them standing so closely together and the state of her usually immaculate dorm room. "Quinn?" she asks, looking for sense in this.

Quinn finds she has none to offer.

* * *

All things considered, Tabitha takes it pretty well. Quinn thinks her willingness to accept the situation has more to do with her travel induced exhaustion than anything else. She crashes early, and in the wake of what just happened with Santana, Quinn follows suit.

Displaced, she has no choice but to offer to share her bed with Santana. There's a third person now in this room, and it feels like they're characters in a play, exchanging civilities and polite conversation until the light turns off and they're left in silence.

Quinn keeps her eyes closed. She can feel the heat of Santana beside her. It's a twin bed, and there is no room and Quinn is suddenly exhausted.

She's too exhausted to think, too exhausted to do much of anything but sigh into her pillow and press back further against the wall. She's offering space as a gesture of good will, and after a moment, Santana takes it, shifting forward until long bare legs brush against Quinn's and fingers swipe delicately against Quinn's forearm.

She feels heavier than she's felt in a long time, and despite the haunting awareness of the body beside her, sleep comes to Quinn without effort.

* * *

For an unknown reason, Quinn's eyes open.

It's dark. She's momentarily lost as to why she's woken so readily, but it's then that she sees her. Quinn doesn't move, but she watches Santana, who has just been caught watching her.

Santana is on her side, face half buried in her pillow. As Quinn's eyes adjust to the darkness, she notices dark eyes that shine at her, naked and open and vulnerable in such a way it doesn't seem real at first.

Maybe Quinn is dreaming. But the way Santana hitches in her breath, exhales it… the way Quinn feels it flutter across her face only inches away, it doesn't feel like a dream.

Quinn's heart thuds erratically. It makes her breathless. Santana just looks at her.

They're just staring at each other, and for once, Quinn is at a complete loss.

Bare legs slide across sheets, over her thigh. She's been hooked, Santana's calf smoothing against her own.

A pregnant moment, and then Santana reaches the tiny distance between them and carefully takes hold of her own fingers. They thread easily, intimately.

In the quiet of the darkest part of the night, Santana looks at her, touches her… feels her.

She says nothing, but the affection that shines for Quinn in those eyes causes a tremor that leaves Quinn frazzled and spellbound.

She knows it's going to happen, she watches with open eyes as Santana hesitates only a moment before she shifts to close the distance between them, and then they are pressed together. Quinn watches until the last possible moment, when lips settle tenderly against her own.

Quinn's eyes close, and then there is nothing but feeling. The taste of Santana as she exhales against her lips and presses deeper, mouth moving insistently against her own. The primal feel of possession when Santana slides an open, seeking hand against her skin, spreading against her waist to curl into the small of her back. The barely there pump of Santana's hips that causes the most amazing sensation within her, causing her body to arch and ripping a longing moan out of her throat.

She loses control, fans fingers against Santana's cheek and digs them into Santana's hair. She licks against swollen lips and forgets everything but the way Santana whimpers.

There is nothing more intimate than the way Santana slides her tongue inside of her mouth, the way Santana rolls her body, breasts mashing against hers, legs tangling with the insistent need to get closer.

It's too hot, too heavy. Quinn gasps with the need to breathe and Santana rips her mouth away to trail scorching, burning kisses across her jaw, her cheek, until she's buried in her neck, licking up the column of Quinn's throat.

A cough, foreign and so intrusive it feels like a literal stab against her, opens her eyes.

Tabitha shifts in her bed.

Quinn's is panting. Santana is settled heavily against her. The other woman still has her nose against her neck; Quinn can feel the heavy breath, the way Santana's heart thuds against her chest.

But they aren't alone.

Santana's head lifts. She stares at her, like Quinn should know what to do.

Quinn doesn't know what they should do.

She does know what they shouldn't. It doesn't stop her from offering the insecure girl a trembling smile and a kiss against the corner of Santana's mouth, before she pushes gently at the body on top of her, until Santana lifts just enough to allow Quinn to turn in her arms and back in against her.

Her heartbeat still thuds with the excitement of her aggression; her body screams for release.

Instead, Santana settles in around her, enveloping her with strong arms. Quinn closes her eyes, feels the press of a mouth against her bare shoulder.

It's barely reassurance, but it feels like enough for now.


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: Thanks again for following this story. I hurt my wrist and that's slowed all my writing down but this and the other two stories are still being worked on. Please enjoy!_

**Part Five. Let It All Go**

Even though the train from New Haven to New York is meant to be temperature controlled, the cabin is somehow both frigid and humid at the same time. It's the Holidays, and that means bodies packed together like sardines. Everyone seems to be going to the city for New Years. Quinn's nose wrinkles at the body odor and condensing breath that literally hangs like a fog around her.

"God," mutters Santana, as she shifts in the seat beside her. "It stinks like Finn's socks in here." She doesn't look for Quinn for affirmation, but Quinn silently agrees anyway.

Quinn is used to not discussing things. Russell Fabray never liked to discuss; he only liked to be heard. And she's used to understanding how little choices can mean big changes. Four long years as Santana's best friend-slash-enemy has made her both used to not understanding Santana and understanding her completely.

What she doesn't understand is how this is happening. She doesn't understand why this is happening. She's _affected_ by Santana in a way she never was before.

But they don't talk about it. Though Quinn wakes up early, overheated because Santana's body is still pressed tightly against her, legs splayed over Quinn's thigh and nose blowing breath against Quinn's chin, they don't discuss what happened between them.

Just like the night after they visited the bar, the moment simply exists.

It's her fault just as much as it's Santana's.

What exactly would she even say?

Quinn looks down at her book. She's more than halfway through. This particular page has been open nearly the entire train ride thus far. Quinn's brain doesn't seem at all interested in the world that author Jojo Moyes has crafted and refuses to be immersed.

Santana's thigh brushes against hers. She's listening to music that flows through little black Paul Frank Skull Candy earbuds that fit perfectly in her small ears. Santana's distracted enough by the music to hum along to it. Based on the low, husky notes, Quinn would guess that Santana is in the middle of her Jazz Playlist on Spotify.

Not that Quinn is super into Top Forty, but she finds herself listening to Kelly Clarkson a lot lately. Today, she picks up her phone and searches until she finds a different of song. The soft, velvet voice of Amos Lee reassures her as he begins to obediently softly croon a little ditty named 'Sweet Pea'.

It's a sweet little tender song, and it never fails to make her think of Beth.

Her eyes sting. Quinn's breath goes ragged.

A tingle distracts her. Santana stares off in some far off distance, but her tan index finger is very deliberately spreading against Quinn's open palm. It's a tentative touch; reminding Quinn almost of a scared little spider taking tiny steps away from its web of safety.

The song dies away, and Quinn is grateful. Santana's fingers grow bolder. Her palm fits flat against Quinn's, and immediately her fingers tangle, gripping Santana's tightly.

Though Santana never looks, her eyes close and while she hums, she squeezes reassuringly.

Amos Lee has moved on to his next track: 'Night Train'. It's oddly appropriate, as they go, chugging away from New Haven and on their way to New York, holding hands like shy kindergartners on a field trip.

Quinn's heart beats unsteadily; she blinks back her tears and manages a quiet smile that she doesn't let Santana see.

It's quiet. It's unspoken.

But it's another moment that simply exists, in which Santana is here for her and her alone.

* * *

"Where the hell are we?" Santana asks, and Quinn does not blame her. "Didn't Rachel and Kurt say they live in New York? What the hell is this place?!"

She's standing beside Quinn on a grimy sidewalk, staring up at the decrepit building that, after five minutes of verifying on Google maps, does indeed appear to be the location of Rachel and Kurt's supposedly sophisticated New York loft.

"This is still New York." Quinn tries to defend, but it's a thin argument.

The audible scoff that Santana delivers isn't sexy at all. "This is NOT New York. This is..." Santana's face screws together, trying to come up with an appropriate insult. "This is a three hour train ride into hell. It's like Dante's Inferno if Dante's Inferno featured a crack house." She sounds so disgusted it's almost funny.

She does have a point, however. Rachel's boasting had Quinn picturing something that was a lot less 'grunge'. Rachel spoke of a neighborhood with quaintness and character. A hidden gem of New York City.

The only character this block seems to have is the dirty hobo on the corner who is smoking some fairly pungent weed and offering to go buy them some more with his medical marijuana card.

"Aren't you from Lima Heights Adjacent?" Quinn offers, smirking at the hooded glare her friend immediately sends her way. "This should be almost nostalgic for a tough ghetto bitch like you."

Santana actually blusters for a moment, before she seems to deflate and finally mutters, "Oh shut the hell up; you know my Dad's a doctor."

The honestly is both amusing and refreshing, and Quinn can't help but smile as she lightly presses against Santana's back and urges her forward, into the building that Rachel and Kurt call home. "Come on, Bad Ass."

Santana grumbles and whines like a cat that's been hit with a squirt bottle, but surprisingly, she obeys.

* * *

It takes several hard raps on a metal door that nearly bruises Quinn's knuckles before she can hear the loud echo of booted heels scuttling on hardwood and a sudden screech of metal grinding.

Kurt Hummel now stands in the now open entrance, looking handsome and dapper with his perfectly chiseled jaw and precisely gelled hair. His doe eyes take them in for a moment.

"Oh my GOD!" he squeals, so suddenly and in such a high pitched tone that Quinn actually winces, before pale hands reach out for them both, dragging them through the door so quickly Quinn fears whiplash. "RACHEL THEY'RE HERE AND THEY LOOK FABULOUS!"

"Holy Shi-" Santana wheezes, eyes widening with actual terror for a second when a blur of shrieking brunette hair comes flying at them and launches straight into Quinn's arms.

It's Rachel. Her familiarity invades Quinn with every sense; from her delicate perfume to her tiny height to the way she just seems to squeeze as though it's a contest and she is vying for the top spot.

Warm, excited, bright and beautiful Rachel.

Quinn realizes at that moment just how much she missed her. She matches Rachel's crazy embrace with a soft and sincere hug of her own.

"Hi, Rachel."

"You're finally here!" Rachel's smile is brilliant as she loosens her hold to lean back and stare up at Quinn, squeezing again for emphasis. "I'm so happy you guys made it!"

"Yes, welcome!" Kurt preens, and does this little dance on his booted heels that makes Santana literally twitch beside her. "Welcome to our humble abode!"

Quinn scans her eyes around the large loft; notes the bohemian aesthetic and the flowy drapes that section off parts for what is probably supposed to be bedrooms. The loft is open and airy and oddly homey. It screams Rachel and Kurt; flamboyant and ready to take on the world.

"Emphasis on humble," Santana mutters at her and distracts Rachel, who lets go of Quinn to size up their other friend.

As always, Rachel is nothing if not an open book. She stares at Santana, and right then and there, Quinn realizes that Rachel is now regarding her friend as if she's Eponine herself: a living, gorgeous tragedy in the throes of dramatic desperation.

"Rachel," Quinn begins, warning in her breath, but Rachel will not be deterred.

"Santana," she breathes with sincere emotion. "I missed you so much!"

"Oh, there she goes!" Kurt sighs, and yeah, there she goes, nearly topping Santana over with her engulfing embrace.

Santana, surprisingly, seems to tolerate it. At least for a bit. She flaps awkwardly at Rachel's back and huffs in resignation. "Yeah, okay I missed you too – Rachel!" she snaps because it appears that Rachel has now become overwhelmed with whatever epic movie score that is playing in her head that seems to fit with Santana's current challenges. She only grips tighter, eyes shut tight as she sniffles against Santana's shoulder and soaks it all in.

Wild brown eyes beseech Quinn for help, but its Kurt that manages to finally give Santana room to breathe when he drolly orders, "Rachel, disengage!"

"Oh, God!" Rachel has actually managed tears, and is wiping them stoically as her hold loosens just enough for Santana get her color back, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm just…" she stares at Santana with sincere devotion. "You're so SPECIAL, Santana. You know that, don't you?"

"Rachel…" Quinn begins, wary and nervous. Emotion is one thing: Santana feeling patronized? That's a problem. Quinn knows from experience that she'll snap like a viper and Rachel, with all her gushy emotion, will not stand a chance.

Thankfully, Santana seems to more bewildered than annoyed at Rachel's Oscar-worthy performance. "Okay, wow," she breathes; finally managing to pry herself away just enough to clasp her hands on Rachel's shoulders and keep her at arm's length. "Did the hobo downstairs give you some of his weed?"

Rachel absorbs the statement and a blissful smile spreads across those teary cheeks. Once again she launches herself into Santana's arms. "You haven't changed at all! I knew you wouldn't!"

Frazzled and no longer patient, Santana begins to panic.

"Oh my god, get her off!" she screeches, and Quinn lurches forward in time with Kurt.

* * *

"God help me," Santana whispers, leaning into her shoulder and brushing her lips against a sensitive lobe. "When exactly did Rachel get hot?"

Quinn has no time to answer. Kurt and Rachel, desperate to be the perfect hosts have discovered that they have neglected to pick up ice. Kurt volunteers 'Team Gay' to brave the corner market. Santana only agrees to go when she realizes the only liquor that Rachel and Kurt seem to have is a leftover bottle of dry red wine from one of Kurt's eccentric boss' charity functions. Apparently, not having a fully stocked bar with a good tequila is something akin to a mortal sin, and they're subjected to a rant that is thankfully in Spanish before Santana drags Kurt out with her and leaves her with a Rachel Berry who is admittedly hotter than before.

Gone are the pleated skirts and the flat-ironed hair with the strappy little Mary Janes. In their place is a young woman in a perfect black and white ensemble, wearing chic heels, long wavy locks and dark-shadowed eyes that bring out their brilliance in a way that's breathtaking.

She doesn't look like the Rachel Berry that left Lima. It's only when she and Rachel are left alone, and Rachel shifts her body and smiles uncertainly, that she recognizes the girl that she knew.

Quinn guesses that they're all growing up.

"So!" Rachel says, clapping her hands and spreading her hands across the space of the loft. "Despite our abysmal tequila offerings, we have actually prepared for your visit. This is where you'll be sleeping."

Quinn glances down. Rachel is pointing to an air mattress that has been blown up and deposited in the middle of the floor, piled high with a mishmash of blankets and a couple pillows. Her brow arches at the offering, and Rachel immediately flushes.

"You'll have to share," she sighs, stating the obvious. "I'm sorry. Kurt and I keep meaning to get a pull out, but so far all of our overnight guests have been staying in _our_ beds, and well…"

The quiet insinuation that Rachel and Kurt have been slutting it up in New York is kinda amusing. Good for them.

"This will be fine, Rachel," she says reassuringly, toeing at the blankets with her booted foot. "If Desi Arnez, the Pillow Princess has a problem with it, she'll just have to deal."

The inflated airbed is a double – cozy.

Somehow, Quinn doesn't think Santana will complain.

Not if the night before is any indication.

A brief shudder floats up her spine.

The wood on the floor groans, and it alerts to her the fact that Rachel is still staring at her and shifting uncomfortably. She's nervous, and Quinn guesses she understands why. No matter how much time has passed, she and Santana are still, to some extent, the mean girls who tormented Rachel in high school.

God, sometimes she doesn't even know if she can promise she'll never be that girl again.

Quinn has sworn to be and not be so many things, and she's failed each and every promise.

All she has now is who she is in the present. This Quinn wants to make amends.

So she smiles and takes the time to admire Rachel. "You look good, Rachel," she says agreeably, reaching over to playfully tug at a perfectly set curl that dances over Rachel's shoulder. "This is a new look."

Rachel turns an adorable bright red at the attention. "Thanks," she says, bowing her head humbly. "Yes! Kurt and his boss Isabelle helped me. I figured it was time! This is a new City, so it makes sense to have a new Rachel!" She tugs at her white silk shorts and after a moment admits quietly, "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can't believe it's really me."

There's a mirror attached to a plank of wood across from them. Quinn catches sight of herself and lets Rachel's words sink in.

She loses strength; sinks down against the airbed and feels it give in around her. "I know what you mean," she admits softly.

She continues to stare at that reflection; that attractive blonde girl who looks back at her with those wide hazel eyes that seem so deep and somber.

The mattress shifts with a different weight; Rachel has joined her. "So," she begins hesitantly. Quinn pulls her gaze off the mirror and regards Rachel and her dark and serious eyes. "How is she?"

Santana.

Quinn's mouth twitches. She thumbs a thick blanket, feels the sheet beneath it and waits for a moment for her heart to stop hammering. She and Rachel are alone now. If she wanted to, she could admit to Rachel that Santana isn't the only one in a confusing place. She could tell Rachel what she's been too afraid to voice to herself – that Santana is affecting her, terrifying her, bewitching her. That Santana may be lost, but Quinn is so dangerously close to becoming lost IN her.

"She's okay," she breathes out instead, and curses her own cowardice. She forces a smile on her face and nods quickly. "I think this trip will be good for her."

"It will be," Rachel says resolutely, like a soldier who's been given a command. "We'll make this a New Years to remember!"

Quinn laughs despite herself, remembering quite vividly the look on Santana's face the second Rachel latched on to her. "I think it already is, Rachel."

Rachel nods mechanically, but her eyes are distant, as if she's already moved on. She waits a moment, sucking on her lower lip.

"What?"

Rachel glances at her quickly, takes a breath, and turns fully toward her. "Well, Kurt and I were thinking… and we may have come up with something that may help Santana with her current problem."

Her current problem. As if Santana losing her scholarship and squatting in her Yale dorm could even be called a PROBLEM. Quinn's smile turns plastic, but she clenches her hands in the fabric underneath her and asks, "And what's that?"

Rachel's smile is muted; she's trying to contain herself; something Rachel never does well. "Well… didn't she say senior year that she wanted to go to New York?"

Rachel's mouth is twitching, like she's doing her very best not to smile. Quinn wishes she could do the same. What she feels instead, she can't quite verbalize. Her spine stiffens, and her pulse quickens, even as her brow furrows. "What are you saying?"

Rachel shrugs. "I'm saying that this is a big place, and Kurt and I could use some help with rent. Maybe she doesn't so much need a plan as she does … a new location."

"You want her to move to New York with you and Kurt," she whispers.

"I'm saying we wouldn't be opposed."

They wouldn't be opposed… to Santana moving in. Here.

Quinn glances again at the apartment – notes the open space and the sectioned off bedrooms. Who is to say there wouldn't be room for someone else? She pictures Santana moving through the space, as comfortably and as easily as she moves in her dorm.

This is New York – Santana was made for this city.

And yet, the very idea of boarding that train to New Haven alone…

It's so ridiculous how devastating that is. Rachel's waiting for her answer, staring at her as intensely as a Chihuahua would stare at their owner. So Quinn chuckles and moistens her lips. "That's sweet of you, Rachel. It is," she adds reassuringly. "But that decision should come from her, shouldn't it?"

Per the norm, Rachel is not discouraged. "So feel her out. See what she thinks. Kurt and I love it here and… I think she would love it too."

Quinn looks at Rachel, who smiles brightly and looks so effortlessly gorgeous and confident here.

Rachel may not be wrong.

* * *

They order take-out while they wait for Santana and Kurt, after Rachel explains that though her cooking skills have vastly improved, she's still not willing to wager a dinner for five against the possibility of burning down their mostly wood loft.

Quinn thanks her for her consideration, and then has a brief moment of confusion when Rachel orders nearly every dish with meat in it but the rice.

"Aren't you a vegan?" she asks, and Rachel blinks at her for a moment, gasps, and then scrambles for the phone once again.

* * *

It's frigid in New York, but Quinn finds she doesn't mind the cold. Though she shivers as she leans on Rachel's fire escape, the view is more than worth it.

From her perch, mid-town Manhattan and imposing sky scrapers gleam at her, proud figures who stand up straight and tall, daring her to look at them and not be thoroughly impressed.

This is New York; a place she once thought of as a salvation. Cars honk in the distance; a pigeon crows. The iron beneath her fingers is cold and frosty. She closes her eyes and remembers skipping through Central Park, dancing on stage in the theater district.

She sucks in a lungful of New York air and considers a bleak moment in a hotel room, and two friends on either side of her, as lost as she was and yet still desperate to help in whatever way they could.

And what came out of that?

God, Quinn Fabray and her big plans.

Here they are two years later, just as lost as they were. The Unholy Trinity, who may as well be the blind leading the blind.

But they're close to figuring it out… Quinn thinks they could be. She looks over the city and she can see it…

It's on the cusp; attainable.

Movement alerts her to someone behind her; the scuff of shoes and then a breathy huff. Quinn turns, then smiles wordlessly at Santana, who blows a brunette bang out of her eye and shimmies through the open window. Quinn shifts back again, eyes on the landscape and waits for the other woman to join her.

She feels the warmth of a human body as it presses up against her. Her eyes flutter closed. Her own coat is being draped across her back. Immediately, Quinn feels warmer.

She shivers anyway.

"Thanks," she whispers, and holds her breath for the moment that Santana lingers. Palms round over her bicep and shoulders, molding the fabric against Quinn's skin. Santana rubs against her; warming her skin, presumably to get the chill out.

It's fascinating, that Santana the lesbian is so… chivalrous.

It's also disconcerting. In high school, that protectiveness was usually reserved for one girl and one girl only: Brittany S. Pierce.

"I have to admit," Santana says suddenly, letting go to press in against her. She eyes the expanse of the skyline, and though her expression is half hidden in shadows, Quinn can tell she's as enamored of it as she is. "Gay/Berry may live in a hell hole, but even when it reminds me of the inside of Oscar the Grouch's garbage can, New York still makes Louisville look like absolute shit."

A softness enters Quinn, because Santana's bring to memory familiar words. "New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous," she quotes airily, a bemused smile tilting up her lips. "But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough." Santana stays quiet. She's staring at her wordlessly, and Quinn feels suddenly exposed. "It's a quote. Megan McCafferty," she explains quickly, trying to will away the embarrassment.

Santana surprises her when she offers a soft chuckle instead. "Damn, Quinn. Sometimes I forget how smart you are." Her cheeks burn. She finds herself flustered as she realizes that Santana is staring at her intensely – too intensely. "You know you're amazing, right?"

The way Santana's looking at her now… it's too much. Quinn's overheated in her jacket. Her heart begins to hammer. "Come on, Santana."

"What?" Santana's beginning to tease her now. She can hear the laughter in her voice. "If you got it, flaunt it, Hot Stuff."

She can't do this. She can't. "My point is," she says, louder and more forceful than before. "If it feels like home, why shouldn't it be?"

The teasing smiles fades from Santana's mouth. That sparkle in her eyes, so affecting and intoxicating, loses just a bit of its shimmer. Santana's looks away.

Whatever just happened – the moment is gone.

Quinn glances back over the city and tells herself not to regret it.

"So New Rachel's Man Meat is here. He looks like a Ken Doll and Donkey from Shrek morphed together." That particular description causes Quinn's face to scrunch in confusion. She glances back and watches Santana smirking at her quietly. "He looks like a douche," Santana adds, and shrugs. "Rachel's taste in men has not gotten better."

Quinn laughs softly. "Can't wait to meet him, then." Assuming that's a hint, she begins to move back inside, but finds herself lingering when Santana doesn't follow. Santana stares at her, and that beautiful smile has now grown impish. Quinn has known Santana far too long to not recognize the devil perched on Santana's shoulder. "Why are you smiling like that?" she asks warily.

Sucking in air between her teeth, Santana rubs her finger along the post and then explains, "On the way back from the liquor store, we passed a medical marijuana place. And guess who was standing outside? King Hobo."

Oh, no. "You didn't."

That smile widens – Santana could be the real life version of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, if she wanted to be. She reaches for Quinn with her black polished fingernails and grabs her wrist, pushing off the railway and headed for the window. "Come on."

But no. No, this isn't what they need. They need introspection. They need conversation. They need Santana to come up with a plan.

They don't NEED WEED.

"Santana," she groans, because Santana is fucking adorable with that way she's grinning at her; a kid with her hand in the cookie jar and not caring who sees.

"Come ON, Quinn!" Santana laughs, tugging her like she owns her. "Let's get this party started."

* * *

She's not uptight. She's not. Quinn is no stranger to marijuana. She goes to YALE. Everyone does weed. It's kinda like a thing, especially in the arts programs.

Quinn was a Skank. Of _course_ she's smoked weed.

But inside of Quinn, there is still that Christian girl who wants so terribly to make good. The responsible Quinn, the angel on her shoulder who tells her that weed is weed and drugs are bad, and it would be so much easier to say no to this if Santana didn't look as hot as she did teaching Kurt how to roll a joint.

Even Quinn's metaphorical angel is drooling a bit.

And focusing a little too closely in how the white little joint looks wrapped around Santana's gorgeously plump lips.

She's also reasonably sure the tequila was a bad idea.

But they're in New York, not New Haven, and the Santana that giggles as she sips at the margarita in her hand is not the same girl who downed shot after shot in sad desperation on Christmas Eve.

Something feels… different, and it's that feeling, so hard to pinpoint and yet so tantalizing, that keeps Quinn's mouth shut and her worries silent.

Maybe it has something to do with Santana's gorgeous laugh. Or the way Santana brushes her knuckles against Quinn's thigh, lingering and thoughtless, like she can't quite help herself. Or the way Santana seems to just be WITH her and this group, enjoying life and this moment.

Just another moment.

Quinn wants to experience this – she wants to sit in New York and not think of Lima or New Haven or David or Brittany or what any of it could mean. She wants a college experience – experimenting with friends and cuddling with her bestie, with Kurt and Rachel and even her new manbo.

"It's a life experience," says Rachel, who is clearly trying to talk herself into being okay with her loft becoming an illicit drug den. She's sitting with perfect posture as the rest of them lounge on blankets dragged from the airbed, half-eaten take out spread around them and a newly opened tequila bottle already half-empty. "After all, Quinn, we're performers, and if we have any prayer at all of delivering a real, tangible performance-"

"Oh My God, Donkey," Santana pleads, snapping her fingers at Brody. "Stick your tongue down her throat to shut her up, will you?"

Rachel looks affronted at the request, but Brody, who Quinn will admit, does look eerily look like a very handsome humanized Donkey from Shrek, seems to be a laid back, serene type of guy if not all that bright, and is only too happy to take Santana's orders.

"Whatever you say!"

"Ew, no! Stop it!" Kurt snaps, distracted from his attempt to make a joint when Brody grabs a suddenly shrieking Rachel around her waist and pulls her back into him to deliver the said tongue-kiss. "It's bad enough I have to see it when you guys aren't here! Do not encourage this!"

Quinn finds it amusingly adorable. She only chuckles as Santana, who has had more than a mouthful of that bitter smoke, actually chortles. She's… slinkier now, pliable with liquor and the drug, and seems to have erased any boundary issues.

She curls against Quinn, chin leaning on her shoulder as she rolls her eyes. "Oh, whatever, Lady Fae. Just because you don't get any…"

"Who says I don't get any?" Kurt squeaks, insulted. "I get plenty!"

It's a bluff if Quinn ever saw one, but Santana seems more inclined to believe him. She sucks in her breath with a happy cluck. "I knew it! You've been visiting bathhouses, Kurt! Be safe!" she admonishes, pointing the lit roach in his direction. After a moment, she bolts upright. "Want me to teach you how to roll a condom on his winkie with your mouth?"

"Oh my God!" Rachel breathes, scandalized, and Quinn doesn't blame her.

"Ew." Quinn takes another gulp of a margarita to wash away the resulting image that now haunts her.

Santana's hand presses in against Quinn's waist, keeping her still. "What?" she asks, as if that isn't the most inappropriate question ever. "It's not like I'll ever have to use it again," she adds, reasonable even in her drugged placid state. "Might as well pass on my good technique."

"Why wouldn't you use it again?" Brody wears a confused expression on his face, eyes moving from Quinn to Santana and back again. Apparently the 'dumb but pretty' moniker doesn't just apply to Finn.

Rachel has a type after all.

"She's a lesbian," she explains patiently. "A big one." Santana 'hmms' and agrees. Her hand clasps Quinn's, and she's even closer now.

Quinn is so much more sensitive to that than she should be.

"A super big one," her friend enunciates.

Brody absorbs that, and grins a mouthful of perfect white teeth. "Cool."

Kurt, who up until that moment has been eerily silent, finally speaks up. "I want to learn," he says meekly.

Quinn snorts, as Santana pumps her fist proudly, before she turns and offers Quinn her lit roach. Quinn sighs, but when a perfect brow arches in challenge, she finds herself shaking her head and closing her mouth over the little stick. She tastes the smoke immediately. It's bitter and thick, but it's Santana and her look that intoxicate her as she takes in the hit.

"Me too!" Rachel shrieks, and Brody's grin widens to the point that it looks like he's stuck a hanger in his mouth.

Santana doesn't look away. Her brown eyes stay poised on Quinn.

The weed is good weed. Not that Quinn is super experienced, but she recognizes the feeling as it courses through her. It's mellow and sweet, and Santana is gorgeous. Blissfully gorgeous and only inches away.

"Santana!"

The world is calling. Quinn runs her tongue over her lower lip, notes that Santana watches the movement before she slowly turns her gaze on Rachel and Kurt. "I need a condom and a banana!"

"So, is this like an audience participation thing?" Brody asks, clearly enjoying the fact that he's the only straight dude at this particular fiesta. "Do you take volunteers?" Rachel guffaws and smacks him. He laughs. "Ow, I'm kidding!"

"Not funny!" Rachel whimpers, and yeah, there she goes. Drunk Gropey Berry makes her appearance.

"Woah!" Santana whistles against her, thoroughly impressed with how Rachel is currently straddling her male stud. "Normally I'd be disgusted but… Geddit, Berry."

Kurt seems much less amused. "Rachel, this is not performance theatre. If you do not disengage I'm getting the squirt bottle."

Rachel pays him no attention. She just keeps going at it, and Quinn finds herself wrinkling her nose at the sight. Not even the weed induced mellow is enough to keep her from being at least mildly disgusted.

"I warned you!" she hears, and suddenly a stream of water is sprayed at the cavorting couple, causing Rachel to squeal and topple off of Brody, and Santana to burst into hysterical peals of laughter.

"KURT!" Rachel sounds livid.

"I WARNED YOU!" he blusters again, but the laughter has weakened him, and it makes him easy prey for both Rachel and Brody, who turn on him like drowned cats. "ACK!"

It's pure pandemonium. The trio runs around the loft like kids in a playground, chasing each other and hollering vengeance for one thing or another.

Quinn feels no inclination to join them. It's enough to sit here, with Santana beside her. She giggles and laughs and offers the occasional commentary, but Quinn doesn't care to hear it. Instead, she wants to focus on what's in front of her. On gorgeous brown hair and brown eyes so deep they can drown a soul.

She wants to touch. She does. Her fingers reach up and press against smooth skin, drag against an olive cheek, and shudder at the press of bee-stung lips against her thumb.

And apparently touching someone's face like they're a painting will catch their attention.

Santana's eyes lock on hers, and they're brilliantly magnetic. She lets her touch, and Quinn's grateful. So grateful.

Also so high.

It's kind of amazing.

Fingers skim against her shoulder, bringing her in closer, until Santana quietly lifts the joint to Quinn's lips. Entranced, Quinn has no choice but to obey. She takes in the smoke; holds it in her mouth.

Santana whispers, "Come here, Q," and then her mouth opens against Quinn's, receiving her offering with a breathless sigh that brings liquid heat between her thighs.

"Holy shit, that was hot."

Brody. Quinn's spine stiffens. The reminder of the real word is a shot in the arm, and it's literally painful for her to lift her head, and note the way the other three stare at them. Rachel is the one she truly sees. Rachel, with her mouth open and her eyes glassy, trying to make sense of it.

If she were sober, Rachel would be concerned. She knows she would be. She can see it in the way Rachel stares, trying to fit the pieces together and trying to find the brain cells to remind herself that she should care.

"Oh fuck you, Donkey!" Santana barks, and it's enough.

Rachel is distracted, particularly when Brody the Donkey makes it worse by saying, "What? It's attractive!" He bobs his head like a toy. "You're both very attractive." Rachel pinches him, and he winces. "Not as attractive as Rachel here, but- "

Kurt is the one that stops it. His hair is now soaked with what Quinn hopes is water. "Brody, buddy," he sighs, moving past the bickering pair to splay out next to Santana on the blanket. "Quit while you're ahead." He has apparently given up on making his own joint and steals Santana's.

A slow chuckle sinks into her right shoulder. Santana's weight is warm. The attention may have shifted off of them, but Quinn remains no less entranced, as a bold touch slips underneath her shirt to trace alongside her trembling abdomen.

Quinn's vision clouds. She inhales unsteadily as hot breath skims along her ear and a velvety voice speaks slowly and quietly. "He's right though. We are hot together."

Quinn's lids flutter. She curls the fabric underneath her fingertips and forgets to breathe.

Across the way, Rachel's staring at them. Quinn should care.

She doesn't. She doesn't have the capacity to care.

Every inch of her, every possible cell is pulsating with absolute desire. It's buoyed by the drug and haunted by absolute awareness that Santana is looking at her with the exact same need.

They want each other.

Santana's touch brands her, and when it slips away, Quinn bites down her own anguished moan.

"Where are you going?" Kurt asks, as Santana stands unsteadily.

"Bathroom," Santana says, but her eyes stay on Quinn, lingering; tempting.

Drugged and besotted, Quinn has no control. She watches Santana go.

She's a temptress. She's Santana.

_I want no blood from you-not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name._

The words whisper in her brain. In a fog of smoke; of love, Quinn is helpless.

She gets up and follows.

* * *

_AN: Quinn's last quote is by author Nalini Singh._


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six. And Now I'm Feeling Stupid**

Quinn has guilty pleasures. She's human; shamefully so. Her vices, the ones she's managed to keep discrete and quiet, usually stay hidden deep inside of her. Her desires are almost always unspoken, voiced not even to her.

The smoke she has inhaled feels like it floats inside of her. In infects her brain, and brings with it a hunger. It's not a hunger for food.

This hunger seems so ravenous she shakes with the need.

God, her mouth even waters.

Quinn's fingers twitch. Her heart races.

Is this normal? Is it? To stand inches away from a door that's open just a crack and feel so… alive? To look at that door and imagine… worship who is on the other side?

And yet, even dizzy, even infected with this, she still remembers a quote from Lewis Carroll.

_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again_.

She's drugged… it's because she's drugged. This is because of the drug and because of the liquor. With it comes the freedom to chase this White Rabbit.

Freedom to lift a heavy hand, press against the door and watch it creak open.

Santana stands against the counter. She's facing the sink, away from Quinn. Leaning slightly forward, her ass is presented prominently, and it's as magnetic as those dark eyes that catch hers through the reflection of the large mirror over the sink.

_God… _

Santana's hooded look burns like a phantom grip that clasps over her throat, rendering her breathless and gasping, tugging with an insistence that demands Quinn come closer. With a pounding heart, she obeys.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Voices that laughed so loudly before are now muted. All others fade away and now there is only her own breath; the way her pulse quickens; how her skin burns.

There is only the haunting, gorgeous form of Santana; that face in the mirror, that body that stands so very still. Santana's only expression is a stalled smirk. Dark eyes do not stray from her, but there's no movement.

Maybe, just like Quinn, she didn't think they would make it this far.

There is no mistaking her intentions. Quinn's motivations are naked and obvious in the way her breath exhales through her mouth, in the way her eyes rake over Santana's body, linger on every curve, admiring the way that damn skirt stretches over Santana like it doesn't exist at all.

This is dangerous. Never has Quinn wanted so openly. She's high and a little drunk and it's released her in a terrifying way. She has no control. That part of her that works so carefully to STOP this has fallen prey to Santana, and it wants just like the rest of her wants.

It wants possession. It wants that body. It wants Santana.

Frustrating, volatile, beautiful Santana. Her best friend. Her worst enemy. The girl she never wanted to trust and the gorgeous woman she knows she'll never have.

The reflection makes it easier. It's like she's looking into a different world, a world where Quinn has the control. A world where there are no consequences. There is only lust, desire, and the twisted affection that exists now between them.

In the reflection, Santana stares at her, quiet and still. It's not enough. Quinn wants words. She wants that acerbic tongue to bite at her and remind her of who they are. What they are meant to be.

This isn't love. She can't feel love.

It's not love with Quinn.

Quinn knows that.

But it can be lust. It could lust and affection. It could be so much more than liquor and drugs.

It's so clear now. The answer is in the reflection. There is no mistaking who is in this room now. It's Santana and Quinn.

She steps forward, and hears the intake of breath that Santana takes: anticipation. Another movement and Santana is near enough to touch. The breath stops: excitement. Quinn watches, outside of herself and yet so very aware of every pinprick of emotion as her palm lifts, slow and reverent, to collect brunette curls and smooth them over Santana's shoulder, exposing a slender, flawless neck with a pulsing beat.

She exhales, floating air against the exposed skin. Santana's entire body shudders. Eyelids flutter.

Maybe Quinn isn't the only one affected.

Fascinated, Quinn's touch gains confidence. Fingers press gently, thenspread against that neck. She palms over the curve of it, until she's just touching Santana's collarbone.

The heat of her soaks into the skin. Her grip tightens.

Santana sucks in a sharp breath; holds it in her mouth and then releases it just as quickly. Quick short pants follow, rising and falling and straining against Santana's tight shirt. Quinn watches: her own voyeur. The image they present is s magnetic and beautiful.

_They_ are beautiful together.

"This is what you meant, isn't it?" she asks, voice hushed with wonder, sparking with realization. Santana's fingers journey behind her, until they are pressed flat against Quinn's thigh, flexing over the fabric to dig into the muscle. Once again, that little vein in that perfect neck throbs. "So beautiful…"

The hunger rages. Quinn's will is controlled by her own desire and it consumes her. She lowers her head and opens her mouth, burying a kiss into the crook of Santana's neck. It's a perfect curve; her lips feel surrounded by soft skin. A ragged moan rips from the body she holds, sinking back against her.

"God, Quinn."

It's her name on Santana's lips. It's her mouth that's causing the whimpers; the little pleas, the rocking of Santana's ass back against her pelvis.

It's Quinn that owns Santana now. This moment is hers.

God, the way that moves her…

_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again_.

She pushes the thought away.

Quinn's hands snap to Santana's hips, holding her steady. Her mouth ravishes Santana's neck, tongue licking as she sucks, coating the skin with her own saliva. She continues pressing burning, lewd kisses until she reaches Santana's jaw. A strong hand leaves her thigh to reach up, dig in her nape and suddenly there is no escape. Not anymore.

Quinn doesn't care.

She wants this. She wants demanding fingers that grab hold of her and force her lips against a willing and addictive mouth. She wants that feeling that happens when Santana's ass grinds against her, making her hips jerk and her knees buckle.

She wants to be controlled. She wants to be kissed. She wants to be worshiped.

She wants Santana.

"Fuck this," she hears, before her body is forced back and Santana is twisting against her. Bold arms wind around her neck and then again her mouth is plundered, Santana's tongue demanding entrance, demanding everything. She kisses Quinn with urgency and a lust that sends emotion deep into Quinn's abdomen. Lips slide and nibble, Quinn's tongue tangles roughly with Santana's, and teeth nearly rip at her mouth.

She inhales hard through her nose, shoves and pushes until Santana's backed up onto the sink and those lean thighs open up to wrap smooth legs around her. Something falls and shatters. They don't care.

Santana's fingernails scratch, digging marks into her shoulder blades, and Quinn isn't sure why she even feels the pain until she realizes that her dress is now half off, hanging off her shoulder, allowing Santana to claw at her neck and snap at her bra straps.

"Fuck, Quinn," she hears, mottled words that lose their bite when the mouth saying them sucks hard against her tongue. "You're so fucking beautiful."

She says it like she's angry and still the words sink into Quinn like poetry.

Ignited, Quinn's palms slide between them. She is not easy or gentle. Her fingers spread against full breasts. Santana groans; her chest arches, pressing them up into her palms, offering herself.

_God._

She's never… it's never…

Nipples pebble hard against her palm. She feels them drag, even over the shirt, over the skimpy lace bra. Her tongue swipes against Santana's teeth, swallows down a moan and Santana's nails scratch lines against her shoulder.

It's permission enough.

She digs fingers underneath the fabric against Santana's cleavage, yanks with rough force and then they are bare. Gorgeous breasts with hard dark nipples that spill over Santana's top, presented to her eagerly. She feels Santana's lips pant against her cheek, nibbling on her jaw and her chin.

This is real. It's happening. Those are bare breasts that feel so soft against her questing fingers. That is actually Santana's nipple that rolls between her fingertips. It's Santana's agonized huff that she hears against her ear when she pinches a little too hard.

Just another moment...

"Quinn..."

Quinn gives her no time to finish whatever she is going to say. Fingers thread into her hair the moment her tongue presses against a firm nub. She tastes salt on Santana's skin, feels the texture of soft skin and a nipple that rises into her mouth.

She moans. Santana yanks, pulling her off balance in such a way her hand flails to find purchase.

She knocks against something... pills maybe? It doesn't matter. It goes crashing to the floor.

She's wet. Quinn is desperately wet. It causes a desperate awareness that turns into an audible whine when Santana's legs pull her in closer still, grinding against her with purpose.

"Shit!" she gasps against Santana's skin because there is nothing else but that intense FEELING. Her hips thrust forward with enthusiasm, and even through the layers of clothes between them, Quinn can feel...

God, is that really what she's feeling?

Santana's head falls back harshly against the mirror, half naked and clutching at her. She's splayed so lewdly against the counter, hips pumping and back curved in a perfect arch.

The image is devastating in the most aching of ways. Santana is this way because of Quinn. Santana looks like this because Quinn's hands are on her. This is her best friend as she's never imagined, and it leaves her breathless, entranced, and filled with such desire she shakes from the power of it.

"I want you," Quinn breathes, finally giving voice to this. "I want you, Santana."

Brown eyes, deep and dark and hazed with lust, blink open. Santana's mouth, swollen and puffy, falls open. She pants harshly.

"What the hell are you guys doing in here!? Rioting?!" The voice is intrusive and so, so loud. Kurt, Quinn realizes dizzily. Kurt's voice that shouts just as the knob on the bathroom door twists and the door flies open. "I know slapfights are like, your thing, but there are flea market antiques in there, and if you two have damaged a single one-"

Like a deer stuck in headlines, Quinn cannot move. There's no time. Before she can even process the intrusion, Kurt is here, in the bathroom, invading their space and their world.

Through the mirror, Quinn sees his horrified face, and though it's now set askew by their rough foreplay, she also can see quite clearly the image they present.

Santana sits splayed on Kurt's bathroom counter, legs open and wrapped around Quinn's hips. Her breasts are bare and shining with moisture that is Quinn's own saliva. Quinn's blonde hair is a mangled mess. Herusually perfectly put together face now features swollen lips smeared with lipstick, and she wears a dress that hangs off her shoulder, bra strap dangling uselessly from her arm.

There is no mistaking what is happening in this bathroom.

And still, no one moves. Kurt seems himself frozen. He's pale and stricken.

"Kurt! Are they alive! Are you?!"

Rachel.

"Oh Fuck," Santana breathes, and it's enough to spur Kurt into action, like a character who was on pause and now pushed into fast forward.

"It's BUSY!" he shouts, and swivels for the door, throwing his weight against it the second it begins to move. "I mean, they're busy! Do NOT come in! Because they are VERY VERY busy!" The look he shoots them is wild and manic, but Kurt does give them a moment of reprieve when he himself slips out and gives the scene one more haunting look. "I don't know what you broke," he spits, "But it's all antique and you're paying for all of it!"

The door slams shut.

But it's no use. Kurt has let in the world. He has let in her own doubt. Gone is the freedom. Gone is the giddy emotion, the LUST that drove her so forcefully just seconds ago.

What's left behind is exactly what this is – a drunken hookup exacerbated by drugs. It's just like New Haven.

But God, it's worse. It's worse. Why is it worse?

Santana's legs fall from around her waist. She covers her breasts, trying hard to fix herself.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Santana says, but her voice is tight and Quinn is not reassured. She's not looking at her.

Shards of glass, remnants of Kurt's antiques, spill around them.

Quinn's legs are shaky. She's not sure she can move, so she just looks at the mess that she and Santana have created.

Lewis Caroll whispers to her, one more time, "_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again_."

* * *

"Do you need help with that?" Santana is off the counter. She's watching as Quinn picks up the ironically literal pieces of their brief break from sanity.

Santana's voice is low and soft, so unlike her usual tone.

It makes Quinn shudder, but the emotion she evokes is unrecognizable. Quinn doesn't realize her hands are shaking until she accidentally drops a piece.

"Quinn-"

She jerks away from the hot hand that settles on her. "I can do it," she snaps, a hard crispness in her voice that stops the warmth of Santana's touch immediately. "Just let me. Leave me alone."

There's a moment when she thinks Santana is going to fight her. Quinn continues to go through motions, gathering little shards of porcelain as she waits. There's a lump in her throat that's actually painful, and all she wants now is for Santana to go away.

She wants it as badly as she wanted Santana pressed against her just minutes before.

For once, Santana gives her what she wants.

"Fine." Santana exits the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

The force of it makes Quinn jump. She places a shard on the vanity. In the mirror, in her reflection, she rediscovers Lucy Fabray: small, ugly and terrified and disgusted with herself.

Kurt barges into the bathroom, retching with his hand over his mouth and hobbles over the toilet.

He seems not to notice her at all.

* * *

The carefree, silly atmosphere that flooded the loft so easily before has faded. There's now an unspoken element; what everyone knows and no one wants to comment on.

Kurt, unused to the weed and the munchies it produces, ate himself sick, and he is now passed out on his bed. Rachel, always the friend no one wants and everyone needs, has lectured Kurt, cleaned up as best as she can, and retreated to her own 'bedroom' with Brody.

Before she does, she shoots a look with Quinn that for once, Quinn cannot read.

Quinn doesn't care. She is in no mood to receive Rachel's disappointment, anger, or whatever it is that Rachel wants to feel.

Santana has already bundled herself under the covers, curled into the left side of the bed. Quinn always sleeps on the right.

They have official sides of the bed. That's how many times they have shared a mattress.

It's stupid how sadly funny she seems to find it.

Quinn strips, changes and slides into the bed. Santana never moves.

The apartment stinks of weed. She drifts off to sleep ignoring the scent of Santana's perfume that lingers on her skin.

* * *

She awakens in the darkest part of the night chilled to the bone and alone. The left side of the mattress is empty.

Quinn is disoriented, sleepy enough to feel concern instead of hesitation. She searches the large space, and discovers that the window to the fire escape is open. Curtains billow from the New York breeze seeping inside, the cause of those bumps on her chilled skin.

Quinn rises off the bed.

She pulls on her coat, but it's still a sobering moment when she steps out onto the ice cold fire escape and feels just how chilly it is. New York is unforgivable at night, and yet Santana seems unaffected. She's shivering ever so slightly, but there is no reaction to Quinn's presence except a curious look and a faded smile before she looks away.

In a way, it helps to see Santana this way. She's in almost the exact same position that Quinn was in earlier, evoking some odd sort of deja view.

They can be who they were.

Quinn glances down at the blanket she carries with her. It feels like she's suddenly playing a part, and the result is dizzy sort of haze that carries her closer to Santana.

With a tender, apologetic touch, she spreads the blanket and carefully places it over Santana's shoulders. The other woman stiffens against her touch, but only slightly. Quinn waits breathlessly until Santana reaches up behind her to grab hold of the edges of the fabric and wraps it more carefully around herself.

"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like she means it. Santana remains distracted, eyes peering over the blinking lights of the city.

A particularly cold wind blows past them and Quinn's teeth begin to chatter. "You know it's freezing, right?" she asks, stating the obvious as she moves to stand beside her. A blond hair sticks to her mouth. With a huff of irritation, she smoothes her fingers across her cheek and fishes it out of the way.

Santana watches the movement. A smile floats on her lips before it fades just as quickly.

"Brittany called," she says. In the distance, a car alarm goes off. "I didn't want to wake you."

It's oddly thoughtful of Santana. In high school Quinn used to be subject to quite a few Brittany and Santana midnight couplings, and Santana had never seemed to care about her beauty sleep back then.

Still, Quinn's emotions are raw, and Brittany's name carries a power that it never has before. Her heart clenches inside of her. "Oh," she manages, amazed when her voice sounds almost flat and unaffected. She mimic's Santana's position, hands twisting around the metal railing as that damn car alarm keeps going. "What'd she say?" she asks, because that's something a friend would ask. It's what's expected and because they are friends, she should feel nothing beyond the general concern that would be normal because Brittany and Santana broke each other's hearts and this is a delicate situation.

She should have no personal investment in that conversation at all because Quinn should have no personal stake in this.

Santana's hair whips about her, but even in shadow, her profile is striking. As Santana attempts to control the strands that fly into her face, she bares her neck and it's then that Quinn notices some very dark bruises that mar the skin.

Hickeys, she realizes. Two of them. Courtesy of one Quinn Fabray.

_Jesus Christ._

"Nothing." Santana chuckles harshly. Finally, damn car alarm stops blaring. The street below them seems almost too quiet without it. "She just… she was worried because she hadn't heard from me." With Santana's fingers tangled against each other and that big blanket wrapped around her thin frame, she looks incredibly young. "You know we used to talk almost every day and she's never once told me she's dating Sam?" For the first time since Santana began to speak of Brittany, she looks over. Dark eyes, bright and moist, search her own, holding her gaze. Breathless, Quinn doesn't know what to say. "God, I even tried to bring it up. I tried to make her tell me and… she just… changed the topic." Santana's shoulders slump in frustration. "Started talking about Lord Tubbington and his gambling addiction."

_Brittany_, Quinn thinks miserably._ What the hell are you doing?"_

This isn't the Brittany that she knows. Brittany is acting out of character and it's startling.

For Santana, it must be terrifying. This is woman she loves. The woman she thought she knew. Brittany has always liked to define her own realities but the lengths she's gone with this...

She doesn't understand. And she knows that neither does Santana.

But then again, they are also the pair that earlier that evening had pushed into a bathroom and nearly forgotten the world themselves.

Maybe they have no right to judge Brittany. Quinn is supposed to be one of Brittany's best friends, but each and every moment her lips has touched Santana's, she has not thought of her once.

"I'm sorry," she says, when she realizes Santana is staring at her, waiting for some kind of response.

Lips quirk; a bitter smirk on those full lips that reek of sadness. "It's stupid. I couldn't even tell her about what happened in Kentucky," she admits.

God, the three of them are such hypocrites. Quinn sighs, watching the cloud of condensation dissipate in front of her moments later.

"I know," Santana snaps, but there is no acidity behind her response. Santana remains pensive this dark night. She stares at the New York lights as if they hold some magic key, an answer to all of this. "It's fucking weird, you know? She's supposed to be my best friend and I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to her now."

What is there to say? Lima, Ohio seems so far away, a time machine that stands still while the world moves on around it.

Life has happened to them all, and despite even Brittany's efforts to stave it off, some part of them all is not who they were.

Is this growing up? Because it sucks.

"Maybe it's because you're not best friends anymore."

Santana reacts like she's been actually hit. She sucks in her breath and just looks at Quinn, wounded. "Quinn-"

"She moved on and fake-married Sam and didn't tell you, Santana." It's harsh, but it's the truth. These are big moments that have defined Brittany and her life in Lima.

Santana's eyes water, but she has no response except a furious shake of her head and a curse. "Fuck," she whispers.

"Best friends talk," Quinn snaps.

The words die in the space between them, and what fills that space is a sudden awareness of what she has just said. It's a stupid thing to say in the face of her own quietness.

Santana's hickeys haunt her. Just another moment, they jeer.

Quinn's heart skips a painful beat. "You're right," she hears. "Best friends talk." Santana's voice is mocking; forceful. She has regained her anger and with it, her strength. "So are we ever going to talk about this?" Quinn can feel the heat of Santana's glare burning into the side of her face. She feels frozen, overtaken by the chill and the paralyzing emotion that guts her.

Quinn lives by that emotion. She understands it. Instinct and self-preservation guides her. Each and every time she has ignored that voice she's been rejected, or nearly killed, or fallen pregnant.

She can't do this. She can't. Santana is meant to be her safety – her constant.

She's not supposed to terrify her and she's not supposed to PUSH her like this.

"Quinn."

No.

"What are we supposed to say?" Quinn whirls, and it takes Santana aback. The other woman opens her mouth, closes them, but Quinn shakes her head and continues. "No, seriously, Santana, what can we say?"

Eyes flash at her. "How about, 'We were high and drunk and we almost had sex in Rachel and Kurt's bathroom!'" Santana snaps, and Quinn shudders at the thought, the actual words that come out of Santana's mouth. "And you know, come to think about it, it seems to keep happening! Maybe we should talk about that or what it means?"

What it means. God, seriously?

"Does it have to mean anything?" Because it can't. She knows it can't. Two minutes ago they were talking about _Brittany_. Santana has no scholarship and no plans. She's an open, bruised and bleeding heart, and there is no ROOM for Quinn now. God, she hates that she knows that but she does.

And God… Quinn… Quinn isn't even GAY. Not really. This … thing with Santana-

How can an affair with her own professor feel safer than sex with Santana?

Santana stares at her. She's breathing hard, panting in and out, but she's just looking at Quinn. She looks naked and open and terrified and Quinn wants to help her, but she can't.

Quinn's heart is already so dangerously bruised, so terrifyingly broken. To lose it completely when even in New York, even after all that's happened, Brittany still stands between them like a grim grinning ghost…

"I guess it doesn't," Santana mutters, and Quinn hates how much it hurts to hear it.

Santana has no right to sound so torn.

It's so cold out here. Quinn's teeth continue to chatter and though Santana stands right beside her and she's wearing her coat, she feels naked and alone.

Quinn inhales unsteadily, and forces herself to stand.

Maybe this is good. What they needed. This is a reminder of what they are and what they are not.

Quinn is Santana's friend, and they are here in New York because Santana is lost.

Quinn cannot be lost with her.

One of them has to know exactly who she is or they will both drown.

"Kurt and Rachel want you to move in with them."

It's probably the exact opposite of anything Santana expects to hear. Her friend nearly chokes with the revelation. "What?!"

The reaction is an amusing one. Quinn feels her aching heart ease. She smiles softly. "And I think you should."

Santana is flabbergasted; for once without words. "And when were you three going to let me in on this little plan?!" she sputters adorably.

"I just did," Quinn points out reasonably. "Just think about it, okay? Stop being a coward, and really think about it." She reaches for Santana's hand to carefully squeeze at the cold fingers she finds.

If it's one thing she and Santana have in common, its fear and the lengths they would go to, to keep it hidden. From everyone except each other.

But Santana is not ready for that particular truth. She just stares at Quinn's hand covering her own. "Oh, now we're talking about who's a coward?!"

Touche.

Quinn is suddenly exhausted. She has no strength to argue.

"Santana," she begins, soft and slow. "It's freezing. Can you just… come to bed?" Those beautiful eyes just look at her. Santana doesn't move.

"Quinn…"

Maybe it is the Blind leading the Blind. Maybe they're both lost.

But someone has to take the initiative to pull them both in out of the cold, and Quinn may be a coward, but at the very least, she has strength enough for that.

"Tomorrow is New Years Eve," she says, and there's some sort of hope in that. Santana's palm turns in her grip, until their fingers are clasped tight. Quinn's chest physically hurts, but her smile is genuine. "Come to bed."

This time, when Quinn tugs, Santana follows.


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: Thank you to everyone for all the kind reviews and comments. I know I need to get better about responding, but believe me when I say that every review is read and appreciated and considered. **_

_**:) After this chapter, I did promise to update the brittana fic 'We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This', so as soon as that chapter is done, this fic will receive an update as well. Hope you have a great weekend and thank you again for reading! **_

* * *

**Part Seven. I Know I Said it a Million Times**

She dreams.

It's that terrible type of dream where one knows it is a dream, and yet somehow one still forgets. She wears a tight high pony and a perfectly fitted Cheerios uniform, blood red letters pasted over her chest, branding her as one of the elite.

Her head is held high; her walk is proud and powerful. She parts the hallway full of faceless, nameless students with a thoughtless regality that proves she owns them all.

Santana walks with her, just behind on her right. She matches her stride for stride, and her imposing beauty is a perfect compliment. Where Quinn is light, she is dark. Where Quinn cuts, she slices, and every step is full of swagger and authority.

Lucy would have never dreamed herself worthy enough to befriend someone like Santana Lopez. She would have been one of the nameless, lost in the crowd as the world passed her by.

But she's not Lucy, not anymore. She's Quinn, and Quinn is WORTHY. Santana walks by HER side, her imposing and gorgeous general.

This high school is theirs. The world is theirs.

The hallway seems never ending, but Quinn is in no mood to escape it. She relishes this walk. There are eyes on her that are full of admiration and envy. They look at her perfectly manufactured nose and her sharp defined chin, her hard won figure and the perfect woman beside her and she knows they are as perfect as any two bitches can be.

She turns a corner, and they keep walking. Though the hallway remains the same, Quinn discovers a sudden shift. She's not sure what it is, or why it makes her uneasy, until she glances back to ask Santana if she feels it too and discovers that dark figure has fallen out of step.

She's staring at someone on Quinn's left.

It's Brittany, who hooks her wrist along Quinn's elbow and shines bright blue eyes at her. She's wearing that same Cheerios uniform. It fits over her dancer's body in such a way it looks it was tailor-made for her figure, and she walks beside Quinn and Santana as if she had been there all along.

She's pretty, but her features seem too angular to be particularly striking. Her breasts are small. Her best feature are those blue, blue eyes and her long, athletic legs that seem to go on forever.

But Brittany wears her imperfections with pride, and it makes her beautiful. And though she walks with a different sort of sashay, she matches their stride with effortless grace. And those bright blue eyes are alluring and friendly without a hint of malice, and so Quinn smiles because Brittany is no threat.

The smile only fades when she discovers the way Brittany's attention moves away from her to inspect Santana who exists just out of reach on Quinn's left.

They stay a step behind her; happy to let her lead them. The crowds continue to part, even with the three of them. Quinn's heart trembles oddly; she feels an uncertain sense of dread, but it feels silly so she pushes it away.

She's Quinn Fabray, and this hallway belongs to her. It belongs to _them_.

She keeps walking. The lockers never change, and the faces never seem recognizable. They stare. Quinn keeps her perfect posture and remembers her mother's words: the world is always watching.

But something changes. Quinn doesn't understand it, not at first, but the crowds begin to part less easily. Her claustrophobia begins to kick in, causing her heart to pound and her breath to quicken.

Still, Quinn keeps her composure. Her fingers tighten into fists, and she keeps walking. But still the wide berth seems to shrink.

She gets bumped, and so she snaps, whirling to tell Santana to keep her guard.

Santana isn't there.

Quinn's step falters. She nearly trips on the uneven linoleum.

Quinn loses her focus. She stops moving forward, and instead searches frantically. The crowd has closed in behind her, but by some miracle she catches sight of Santana, some ten feet down the hallway.

She's just standing there.

"Santana," she snaps, because this is ridiculous.

But Santana appears to not hear her. She doesn't appear to see or hear anything but Brittany, who stands beside her and smiles so beautifully at Santana. They're holding hands, unaware of the crowd, unaware of this hallway, unaware of the fact that they've left Quinn behind.

"Brittany!" she tries, but Brittany only smiles a friendly, sweetly happy grin and waves distractedly at her, before taking hold of Santana's hand and leading her away from Quinn.

"Bye Quinn!" Brittany says, and then disappears into the crowd, taking Santana with her.

Quinn feels the crowd closing in. Her shoulder gets knocked. She falls back, catches herself from hitting the floor and tries to move forward. The hallway, so open and clear before, is now a mass of teaming bodies that don't seem to care about the blood red of those Cheerios letters or the position of her high pony.

"Santana!" She's trying so hard not to sound desperate and pleading. "Brittany!"

They don't hear her. God, of course they don't.

Someone plows into her back, nearly mowing her over. She whirls, determined to put him in his place, to recognize the high pony and the uniform when she realizes there is no pony and there is no uniform.

Instead, her hair cascades over her shoulders in dull strands, and in place of her flat stomach is a swollen rounded belly.

She panics.

She wakes to a hand pressing down on her shoulder. It's a gentle nudge that seems out of place with her disoriented senses. Quinn's chest rises and falls. Her vision, initially blurry, begins to focus, until she realizes the person who hovers over her now is none other than Rachel Berry, who kneels against the inflated airbed and stares at her.

Quinn's stomach is flat. There is no high pony, and there is no hallway.

She is in Rachel's New York loft, and she is not alone.

Pressed in beside her, deeply asleep with fluttering eyes and an arm slung across her chest is Santana.

There is no Brittany.

The hand on her shoulder squeezes again. Quinn sucks in a breath and drags her eyes back to Rachel. "Are you okay?" Rachel whispers.

Quinn isn't quite sure. Her heart, struggling to keep up with her awareness, still thuds in her chest. She can taste the layer of filmy sweat that dots her upper lip.

Still, she nods. She's awake, and not pregnant, and that means she's okay.

It's early morning. There's still a crispness in the air, but sunlight has begun to filter in from the windows, and Rachel, by some miracle, seems completely unaffected by both the drug or liquor she consumed last night. She's awake and alert and kneeling at her bedside staring at them both like some sort of creeper.

"I'm going to go grab some bagels and coffee," she says after a moment, in a quiet tone Quinn didn't realize Rachel was actually capable of. "Why don't you come with me?"

It sounds like a request. It's not. Despite the light voice, Rachel eyes are somber, and her mouth is tight.

The last time Rachel looked this disappointed in her was when she discovered Quinn intended to tell Principal Figgens about Puck and Shelby.

So yeah, the very last thing Quinn wants to do at this moment is go get coffee and bagels with this Rachel Berry.

"Please," Rachel says, and it must be really early in the morning, because Quinn somehow does not have the common sense to disregard her oh-so-polite request and turn it down with a sweet 'no thank you'.

She is in the midst of trying to figure out how to untangle herself from the warm and heavy body that's wrapped against her, when Santana's breathing changes, and she shifts. "Rachel?" Quinn hears a sleep soaked voice murmur as Santana digs deeper into her side and half-glares up at their friend. "What the hell?!"

"Good morning, Santana," Rachel says with prim sweetness, as if it's every day she wakes up to Santana cuddling Quinn like an over-sized teddy bear in the early morning after discovering that they had almost-rough-sex in her bathroom.

Santana, stuck in that half asleep state where a brain does not want to become fully alert, seems less concerned about Rachel being witness to her affection to Quinn than she is being woken up at all. She uses Quinn's t-shirt as a makeshift blindfold, burying her face in the fabric of Quinn's shoulder as she growls, " What the fuck time is it? Are you seriously waking us up? What's wrong with you? Were you raised by Jewish wolves?!"

"Santana-"

"God-dammit, Rachel go the fuck away until at least noon or I'm going to go all Lima Boyle Heights on your ass."

And... that's new. Rachel frowns, also thrown at the upgraded term. And it seems she can't help her own curiosity. "Lima _Boyle_ Heights?" she asks tentatively, as Quinn rolls her eyes.

"It's like... the dump behind Lima Heights," Santana grumps because this apparently makes perfect sense to her. She remains in her same position, face buried in Quinn's shoulder, mewling in aggravation as she tugs at Quinn's waist and throws the blankets over her face. "Quinn tell her to fuck off."

It shouldn't be half as adorable as it actually is.

Rachel, however, doesn't seem to share her amusement. Her brow lifts and she stares at Quinn meaningfully. "Quinn," she hisses, which starts Santana growling again, and this will be a blood bath if there's no intervention.

Also, Santana's cuddled so close to her she's actually getting really warm.

Quinn pulls back at the blankets to reveal the scrunched, grumpy face. "Santana." She ignores the near hiss she receives and the way Santana tries to fruitlessly tug the blanket back up in favor carefully smoothing away a dark strand of hair that's managed to lodge itself into the side of Santana's mouth. "Get some sleep. Rachel and I will be back."

Being the lazy and sleepy bitch that she is, Santana doesn't complain too much. "Promise me that I get to kill her when you come back," is all she says behind her closed eyes. "We can hang her by her toes off the fire escape."

"That's so uncalled for," Rachel huffs and Quinn disagrees.

"I promise," she says, causing Rachel to roll her eyes and Santana to smile sleepily.

"That's my girl," she purrs and blindly reaches for her hand to press a lingering kiss against her fingers.

It's a thoughtless act of affection, but it causes such a jolt within her that Quinn is momentarily frozen.

Swallowing down any emotion she may have, Quinn quickly rearranges herself and slides out of the bed and Santana's embrace.

She is unfortunately aware of the way Rachel watches them closely the entire time.

* * *

Rachel is oddly quiet as they descend the stairs.

"Quinn?"

"Yes, Rachel?" Quinn responds sweetly, pulling open the door that will let them out onto the chilly street and into the bustle of New York city.

"You're not actually going to let her hang me by my toes."

"I don't know, Rachel, I did promise," she answers gravely.

The pale look on Rachel's is almost enough to make the morning just a little bit brighter.

* * *

The bagel shop nearly two blocks over is crowded and dingy, even for this time of day. It looks like a hovel, but Rachel insists that these are where they make the best bagels in the neighborhood.

Still, no matter how delicious bagels are, Quinn isn't sure it's worth the carbs to have to stand for twenty minutes just to get a grimy little table for two that is so close to the others she keeps getting elbowed in the head by the jerk sitting behind them.

And yes, the lox spread is actually very good and spreads like whipped butter over her appropriately chewy and nicely toasted onion bagel, and the coffee is surprisingly tasty considering the muck of a coffee maker it's poured from, but it's hard to enjoy any of it when one is partaking with Rachel Berry and that look she keeps giving her in between dainty bites of her everything bagel topped with vegan spread.

She seems to be biding her time, in no hurry to begin what will more than likely be the most awkward conversation that Quinn's had in a while, and that is very unlike the Rachel she knew. Waiting for her to actually say something feels a little like torture.

With a sigh, Quinn puts down her bagel. "Just get it out, okay?"

When Rachel, in the middle of a sip of her coffee, nearly chokes on the liquid, Quinn realizes that Rachel is dreading this conversation as much as she is. The woman actually shakes as she tries to hack her way into breathing.

It would be infinitely more amusing if little coffee droplets hadn't flown out of her lips and landed on her bagel.

Quinn supposes it's for the best. She has no appetite at all.

"Sorry!" she rasps, and Quinn rolls her eyes and takes her own bitter gulp of coffee.

It's unsatisfying. She's tired... What little she did sleep was overtaken by that horrible dream, and even though she didn't drink enough to get an actual hangover, she can feel the effects of dehydration.

Water would have been a better bet than this coffee.

Staying home in New Haven would have been a better bet than this bagel.

Rachel's choking fit has reduced to a bit of a snivel, and now that it looks like she may actually live, Quinn wordlessly hands over a stray napkin that Rachel accepts with a sweet word of thanks.

"Okay then," she breathes, inhaling deeply and exhaling again. "Now that I'm okay... we can get started."

Oh geez. Her brow arches in annoyance. "We can?"

Rachel's fingers twitch in front of her. She wants to bring it up. It's written all over her face. Rachel is struggling for a way to introduce the fact that Quinn has had a big gay moment in her bathroom with Santana Lopez.

So they can discuss it.

Process it.

It would amusing if this wasn't actually happening to Quinn.

"Right," Rachel says when her courage is sufficiently built, "So... what happened last night-"

"Is absolutely none of your business," Quinn says smoothly, which is true and logical and of course will do nothing to stop Rachel Barbra Berry from sticking her imperfect nose right in the middle of this already very complicated situation.

"Um, Kurt and his antiques would very much disagree." Rachel's lip twitches, because apparently there is some part of this that's amusing to her too.

Quinn isn't ready to share in the laughter. "I'll replace the stupid antiques."

"Are you gay, Quinn?"

"Are you serious?!" she sputters, because really, that is so not appropriate.

"Or is just Santana that you're attracted to?" Rachel is staring at her with that same infuriating concerned look, asking her this fucking question when less than a foot away, the jerk who nearly brushed her boob on his way to sit down gives her a long stare.

"Rachel, stop."

"I just want to help!" Rachel is of course infuriatingly diplomatic. "I don't know for sure but I can't imagine you've discussed this with Santana and... I just... I may not be gay but I was obviously raised in a very open and loving environment, having two gay dads and all, and though I'll never rule out falling in love with the fairer sex-"

It's too early in the morning to hear an opening monologue on Rachel's supposed sexual fluidity. "Rachel-"

"Santana IS very beautiful and has very cushy lips-"

"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, and wonders briefly if this is some sort of karmic injustice for never allowing her mother to have the 'birds and the bees' talk with her before she fell pregnant.

Rachel has apparently been distracted by day dreaming about the scenario and now has a faraway, glassy look on her face that is starting to be more than a little disturbing. "I mean, the both of you are just so very attractive... just picturing it was like, the hottest thing that Brody and I-"

OH GOOD GOD.

"Rachel! Shut the hell up!" Quinn snaps, loud enough to not only shut up Rachel, but everyone in the little dingy bagel shop. Now the every customer is staring, and Quinn, cheeks flaming and head aching, has had enough.

She gets up and shifts around Rachel, leaving her bagel and her coffee and heading for the door.

Quinn walks furiously, doing her very best to NOT picture Rachel and her boytoy engaging in some very kinky roleplay with she and Santana as guest stars, when Rachel catches up to her.

"I'm sorry!" she snaps, hooking her hand on Quinn's wrist and holding her back. "Just stop!"

Quinn doesn't stop. She keeps her gaze forward as she snaps, "Rachel, I'm only going to say this once. Butt out. What happened last night was because we were drunk and high and-"

"And it's not the first time it's happened."

Quinn stumbles on a crack of concrete she swears wasn't there before. Rachel catches her, keeps her upright and lets her regain her balance. Quinn is forced to keep hold of Rachel's wrists, and when she looks, she sees stern brown eyes that stare at her, daring her to contradict that statement.

Quinn can't. But she wants to. She's not ready for this. Not now.

Maybe Rachel can sense it. "You and I have been through too much to lie to each other, Quinn."

"Then don't make me lie," she whispers, her voice aching with a silent pleading. Rachel is a relentless force, and as strong as Quinn knows she is, Rachel has always known how to make her crumble.

She can't do that now, not when she's not sure she has the will or the strength to build her walls up again.

But Rachel just keeps staring, and it's horrible. She's looking for something to hold onto, seeking out every twitch of Quinn's harsh expression, waiting for the moment when she will see Quinn and understand.

But how can Rachel understand what Quinn doesn't?

She doesn't understand these feelings. She doesn't understand why Santana is such a maelstrom of emotion and why she's so vulnerable to it. She doesn't understand why she wants to kiss her all the time or why she's so terrified. She doesn't understand why she can hate Santana and love her so much and she doesn't understand how she can so selflessly want Santana to be happy and so selfishly want it to be WITH HER.

She doesn't even understand what that even means.

Rachel's fingers rub against her own.

It's chilly in New York. Pedestrians walk around them without a second glance. They are just two strangers and in the grand scheme of things, they mean nothing. Quinn and her inner turmoil seems to small... so insignificant.

"You know you can talk to me, right Quinn?" Rachel's voice is soft; soothing. "I care about you, okay, and I promise, I won't judge. We all make mistakes-"

Mistakes.

The word causes an angry shiver to race up Quinn's spine, so electric it nearly scalds her. "Oh really?" she snaps, because damn, Rachel really can't help being such an annoying ass sometimes, can she? "This is you not judging? Because you suck at it!"

Brown eyes flash. Rachel's jaw squares. "I'm _concerned_," she snaps, a biting at the word in such a way it makes Quinn's eyes roll even harder. "There's a difference. Because you're scared and hurting and confused and I can't just see that and not do anything about it!"

Quinn has been so focused on being angry that she hasn't realized she's got actual tears in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?!" she asks, whirling and pinning Rachel with that liquid stare.

She hates that Rachel sees the moisture; hates how Rachel winces at the hurt, softens in the face of Quinn's obvious torment.

It makes her weak. It makes her foolish.

Rachel's fingers link with hers, and its just enough support to make Quinn feel like she's beginning to fail. She tries to pull away; Rachel doesn't let her.

"Because I love you!" Rachel says, quietly and fervently. "Because you've been trying so hard to be a friend to Santana, that you've forgotten that you need a friend too."

And she can't...

She can't...

Quinn's face crumples; she has no strength to fight the words.

When Rachel's arms come up around her, Quinn has no will to do anything but bury her face in Rachel's neck and silently sob.

* * *

There's a neighborhood garden that sits between two concrete building a block away. Rachel finds a bench that's colored with graffiti and there they sit quietly, in this little bit of paradise that Rachel assures her should be much more impressive in the spring, when the tomato plants fruit and the chill mellows to let the green things grow.

Quinn's sobs have reduced to tears. The tears that streams have left behind wet tracks though Quinn does her best to wipe them away.

A diner napkin, maybe even the same gross one she gave to Rachel, is now crumpled in her palms damp with her tears.

To her credit, Rachel has not said a word. She has simply sat and waited, shivering ever so slightly as she watches the way the New York denizens go about their day in front of them.

Quinn fingers at the graffiti, traces along the lines of a bright green letter. "_I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?"_

Rachel blinks, unsure what to make of it. "What?"

Quinn smiles painfully. "It's a quote. From Alice in Wonderland."

"Oh." Rachel doesn't seem to know what to do with that. "Okay."

Quinn exhales slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admits quietly.

Rachel absorbs that, and offers a soft, dry chuckle. "Yeah," she agrees. "No offense Quinn, but... duh."

Quinn feels almost empty and almost outside of herself at the same time. It's an odd feeling, but it allows her to appreciate Rachel's amusement. "Yeah, look who's talking, Mrs. Finn Hudson."

Maybe it's a cheap shot, but Rachel's a good enough sport to laugh along with her. "I never said I was any better off."

The admission makes her feel better.

"Quinn... we may have had our differences but you know I adore Santana." Quinn swallows hard. She doesn't look at Rachel, but she listens, even as the napkin in her hand becomes tangled in shreds from her nervous rubbing. "But, she's in a very emotionally vulnerable state-"

"You don't think I know that?" she hisses, because she does. Of course she does. "I can't believe we're talking about this."

"And she's still in love with Brittany."

Quinn's eyes flutter shut. She takes in a harsh breath. "Rachel, it's not-"

"I don't know if you guys are just messing around or if you've even talked about what you're doing, but... you and Santana have always had a complicated relationship and I just don't know if you should make it more... complex."

Quinn can't help the hurt, hysterical bit of laughter that pounds out of her chest. "Don't you think it's a little too late for that?"

Rachel regards her silently. "Maybe. But maybe you also need to hear it out loud. If you're just experimenting with a friend..."

"Rachel," she whispers. The tears are stinging again and Quinn CAN'T DO THIS NOW. "I can't-"

Maybe Rachel has actually discovered a tiny iota of empathy, because she doesn't finish her sentence. "Okay," she says instead, and squeezes Quinn's hand reassuringly. "I'm shutting up. Just know I'm here, if there's anything you'd like... to get off your chest. Though based on what Kurt said, it was the other way around."

Quinn blinks, thrown by the statement until she actually looks at Rachel and sees the impish smile growing on the other women's face.

It's infectious, and Quinn wants so badly to laugh. "Shut up," she rasps.

They're sitting here on this bench in New York, and Quinn is being teased about Santana's breasts by Rachel Berry.

She has no idea why it makes it all okay, but it does.

Rachel's smile widens into a full on grin. "... So is she as good a kisser as Brittany said she was?"

"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, because this is an actual conversation they're actually having and not make believe.

"I'm sorry!" Rachel's shoulder bumps companionably against her own. "Inquiring minds want to know!"

Quinn's cheek flush pink, but she can't help but admit, "She's better."

Rachel sucks in a lungful of air. Quinn can't tell if she's scandalized or turned on. "What do her boobs feel like? Can you tell they're fake?!"

"RACHEL!" she gasps, but she's laughing despite herself. Sometimes she really loves inappropriate Rachel. "I'm not answering that!"

The sun is growing more powerful, and some of the early morning chill has faded away. Quinn discovers herself able to breathe without wanting to crumple inside herself and though her eyes ache, they're dry. She finds the strength to rise off the bench. Rachel goes with her.

"One more thing," she hears as Rachel falls into step beside her.

Quinn shakes her head emphatically. "No more. Oversharing. TMI. Stop it."

"Relax," Rachel says dryly. "It's about Kurt's Antique Soap Dish."

Quinn blinks, and offers her friend a curiously raised brow. "Yes?"

Rachel doesn't look at her. "Let's just say that someone may already broken something very similar and found the replacement at Pottery Barn."

Quinn nearly stumbles in surprise, but when Rachel nods knowingly at her, she finds herself exploding in laughter.

* * *

"Oh my god," they hear the moment Rachel pulls back the metal door at the entrance of the loft. "Are you some kind of Devil woman?!" The cry is anguished and weary.

"Less talking, more pumping. Let's go, Donkey! Man up!"

Santana, still in her tiny cotton shorts and wearing a 'Yale' tank top that belongs to Quinn, stretches out over the floor, doing military style pushups beside a bare-chested Brody, who huffs and puffs as he counts along beside her.

Quinn's steps falter, taking in the scene that is presented to her. "What are they doing?" Rachel whispers, and Quinn has absolutely no idea.

"Come on!" Santana snaps, features contorting with effort as she leads Brody into another set. They've clearly been at this for a while. Santana's muscles are tight, moving like sinew under her shining skin as she inhales and exhales, tossing Brody a scathing glare between sets. "You are SUCH a pansy."

Brody emits an enraged squeak that sounds a bit like neutered Chipmunk as he shoves himself up one more time, struggling to keep up with Santana's relentless pace. "Seriously, what the hell!? Where the hell-"

Quinn can no longer contain her curiosity. "Santana," she says in what she hopes is a sweet and civil manner. "What exactly are you two doing?"

The brunette head lifts, and Santana's dark eyes fall on her as she blows a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "This asshole had the stupidity to say Cheerleading isn't a real sport and Cheerleaders aren't real athletes."

Oh.

Quinn's mouth presses into a firm line, doing her best to contain her amusement as Rachel issues a dramatic gasp. "Ohhh, Brody!" Rachel whispers, hand to her mouth at his stupidity. "Honey." She looks very sorry for her meathead boyfriend.

Quinn has absolutely no pity. Santana is a thin, small woman, but her body is obviously all muscle. The only fat on her body appears to be on her actual boobs and it's not as if Santana doesn't wear clothing that doesn't accentuate that. Brody would have to be an idiot not to recognize Santana's athletic potential.

Sexism is what put Brody in this pickle, and it's only sheer pride that's keeping him in the game. It's almost comical to see the way his heavily muscled frame struggles to keep up with the lighter, quicker, and it seems, stronger, Santana.

"COME ON!" Santana barks, and Brody whines in annoyance.

"What?!" he huffs indelicately, wheezing with the strain. "It's _cheerleading_!"

A former cheerleader herself, Quinn can't help but take offense. She shakes her head, shifting the bag of bagels on her hip. "Yeah, well, it kinda looks like that cheerleader is kicking your pansy dancer ass," she comments ruefully. Brody shoots her an unappreciative glare. It loses it's effectiveness when she realizes that that's pretty much all he can do. His arms have begun to tremble now, and enough of the athlete in Quinn still exists to note he is over-exerting himself and will injure himself soon.

She flickers her gaze back to Santana, and discovers the other woman smirking at her. Her mouth is open and she is breathing heavy, but her movements remain fluid and strong.

A by-product of the Cheerios harsh training regime, and a testament to Santana's stamina.

God, that should not be as sexy as it is.

A brush of Rachel's hand against her elbow breaks her from her dangerous daze. "Quinn, please," Rachel whispers. Quinn recognizes it as a plea for leniency.

Brody huffs and puffs like a demented wolf. It's clear Santana has proved her point. "Santana," she calls out dryly. "Heel."

Santana's body jerks sharply and the smirk fades immediately. Quinn's smile grows, because even though it's obvious Santana resents being commanded like a dog, there's enough of Quinn's Head Cheerio authority still instilled in her to stop what she's doing and push to her feet.

"God, fine," she growls and leans into a stretch, soothing the aching muscles. "We're done, Donkey."

Brody flattens against the floor with a dull thud and a whimper. "Ow."

Quinn has to work hard to resist laughing, and gets a pinch from Rachel in punishment before her friend heads to her crippled boyfriend. "Oh he had it coming," Quinn grumbles. Rachel ignores her.

"That's how we do it in Lima Heights, bitch." Santana's flushed with both exertion and victory. Her eyes shine and she pumps her fist like a dork as she watches Rachel kneel against her crippled boyfriend.

She's proud in a way she hasn't been proud since she's shown up in New Haven. It's a silly victory, but it's a victory all the same, and Quinn understands why it would mean something to her.

So she offers her a smile as she comes forward, aware of how the damp tank top clings to Santana in a way it doesn't quite seem to on Quinn, stretching fabric out in front thanks to the rambunctious twins, who make themselves even more prominent thanks to the way Santana pants.

She stares at Quinn like she's expecting some sort of medal.

"What?" Quinn asks, in the mood to be stubborn. "You're all sweaty. I'm not touching you."

It pisses Santana off a little. "Really, that's how you're going to reward the victor, bitch?"

Quinn's chest tightens, suddenly unsure, until Santana's eyes dance with mischief and her hand lifts for a high five, like they're dudes. Resisting every urge to roll her eyes, Quinn slaps a bagel into the palm instead.

"Congratulations," she drawls. "I will admit, as lesbian and butch as that was, it was impressive."

And a little hot.

Her eyes linger on Santana's, note the way the moisture gathers on Santana's upper lip, and the way Santana's tongue darts out to taste at the salt.

Right.

Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn averts her eyes and looks instead toward Rachel, who has adopted a different strategy to appease her boyfriend and his wounded ego. She places his head on her lap and brushes her hand through his damp hair. "Brody, honey," she says, with patience and exasperation. "Santana had a full athletic scholarship to the University of Louisville and is a three-time national cheerleading champion. Do you not remember me telling you that?"

Brody's eyes widen. He stares uncertainly at Santana, who arches a challenging brow in return. "Yeah, no, I didn't remember you telling me that."

"What you think these abs are just for show?" Santana asks, and actually goes so far as lifting Quinn's Yale shirt up to display her (yes, admittedly) impressive six pack.

Quinn's not sure she can handle that right now. "Santana, put that away. You're acting like you're on _Jersey Shore_ and it's not cute." Not trusting Santana to do it herself, she yanks the shirt down to a respectable distance, and ignores the way Santana's fingers attempt to cling at hers possessively.

It does little to keep Santana from soaking in her victory over the straight dude. "Rachel, if this is the kind of stamina the donkey displays on a regular basis, I pity you. I really do."

And of course she made it about sex.

Donkey-Brody looks affronted, but it's Rachel and the way that her eyes linger on Santana's fingers clasped against her own that cause Quinn to shake off the grip and drop the bag of bagels on a nearby table. "Where's Kurt?"

"In bed. Dry heaving and cursing God," Santana says, lifting a water bottle to her lips and sucking down a good gulp. "I gave him a honey sandwich and made him drink two bottles of water with a multivitamin. He should be fine tonight to go out."

It's an absurdly cohesive statement coming from Santana.

"What?" she snaps when she realizes they are all staring. "He needs the calories and that sandwich is easy to digest."

"And you know this how?" Rachel asks.

Quinn admits she's mildly intrigued.

"I was a candy striper in high school!" Santana snaps, clearly insulted. "Assholes. I can be nurturing."

Not that Quinn is ever one to throw a fellow Cheerio under the bus (most of the time), but she has her suspicions. "I remember seeing that outfit exactly once, and that was right before you gave me mono."

Santana freezes mid-drink. She absorbs that statement, and after a beat, lets a scampy grin float across her face. "Sharing is caring, Quinn."

Bitch.

"Do you still have the outfit?" Brody is apparently over how they do it in Lima Heights enough to go back to being a guy.

Rachel has no words, and merely smacks at her pervy boyfriend's shoulder hard.

"Ouch! So you can borrow it!"

* * *

It's a lazy New Years Eve. Though the loft is crowded, it's surprisingly quiet. Quinn sits on the sofa with her books. She fingers her cell phone idly, and notes that it has been three days since she's heard from David.

Have they broken up?

Quinn discovers that she doesn't exactly care.

It's odd, considering how only a few weeks ago she considered him the center of her world.

Perspective is a tricky, funny thing.

"You okay?" It's Santana who sinks down beside her. Her hair is damp, combed through and ready to be styled for the night's festivities. She's devoid of make up and wears only a pair of sweats and a grey tank top.

She's so beautiful she takes Quinn's breath away.

For some reason, the realization just makes Quinn's sad heart grow sadder still.

But Santana is watching with an expression that is dangerously close to worry, so for her Quinn manages a tight, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Santana looks unsure. "You were out for a long time with Rachel," she says, stating the obvious.

"I was," Quinn acknowledges. She lets her fingers trace over the pages of her textbook, feeling the sharpness of the page's edge dig slightly into her skin. Not enough to give her a paper cut, but enough to remind her that it could.

"Do I have kick Rachel's ass? Cause I do remember promising to hang her by her toes."

Santana, protective and sweet. Quinn's smile trembles just a bit. "I think she's earned a reprieve," she says, and presses a gentle hand against Santana's forearm, squeezing lightly before letting go.

She feels... passive in the wake of her release with Rachel.

Quinn isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. "Quinn." Her eyes lift once again to Santana, and discovers a serious expression on a gorgeous face. "Seriously, are we okay?"

Santana has no joke for her. No snarky comment to alleviate the tension. Instead of being that snarky bitchy Quinn can usually count on, she's sitting beside Quinn with genuine concern and worry. Right now she isn't a sexpot or a bitch, but a true friend who is afraid that they've been too affected to move past this.

Rachel is right. Their relationship is complex.

But she cares, and Santana cares, and that's more than most people have in a lifetime.

She puts down her book and shifts her body, until her hands are tangled with Santana's and she's only inches away. "We're good, Santana," she promises. Santana looks at her intensely, unsure whether or not to believe her. Quinn's heart trembles at the insecurity, and so she allows herself to lift her palm and press it softly against Santana's warm cheek. She notes the way Santana's eyes flutter; how her breath goes slightly uneven for just a moment before she regains the steady rhythm. "Look," Quinn begins, her expression sweet and optimistic. "It's New Years Eve and we're in New York, so why don't we spend today and tonight celebrating the fact that we have survived this crap of a year..." Santana's mouth twitches, a phantom smile that is a start at least. "And we worry about the rest later?"

An unsteady breath floats across her finger tips. Santana's hand covers her own, squeezing tightly. She's looking at Quinn with such tenderness, it breaks her heart. "You know I love you, Quinn, don't you?"

And she does. Quinn knows that absolutely. Santana loves her as much as she is capable.

"Yeah," she admits. "I know." With fondness and a lover's touch, Quinn allows her smile to reach her eyes. "I love you, too."


	8. Chapter 8

**Part Eight. But I'll Only Stay Here One More Night**

It's New Year's Eve in New York City.

The streets are flooded with people: guys with greasy, slicked back hair and shined black boots while girls dress in tight, barely there dresses, shivering in fashionable throws and leather jackets that do nothing to battle the chill of the evening. They balance on painful stilettos and carry tiny purses that Quinn is reasonably certain will be lost by the end of the night.

The mantra of the evening is 'celebrate!' and yet for some reason it all reeks of a familiar type of desperation that makes Quinn feel like she'll just be one more in the crowd.

Quinn lost her taste for obscenely high heels after her accident. Her spine will not tolerate them. Instead, she picks wedges that seem almost subdued compared to the stiletto heels that Santana seems so comfortable in. She wears a dress that flares at the waist, because she isn't a cheerleader anymore and has been told one too many times by her mother that her thighs are bigger than they should be.

Her hair, which used to be one of her best assets, feels stiff and lifeless, and though Quinn applies her makeup and knows she looks GOOD, she doesn't feel beautiful.

It's funny; she's been called beautiful so many times. Quinn wonders how many times she will actually hear it before it sinks in and she actually believes it.

She stands at the mirror in Kurt and Rachel's bathroom, uncapping her lipstick and focusing only on her own reflection. There is an energy here that practically crackles with static, and Quinn hates it. Her mind fights her, desperate to relive the events of yesterday evening.

Quinn is stubborn in her urge to forget. She ignores the cracked soap dish. She's thankful for the fact that Kurt has taken it upon himself to scrub the entire vanity so it stinks like bleach.

"Verdict?" Santana lingers in the doorway; hand on her hip, presenting herself for inspection.

Quinn straightens, and though her chest tightens, under the guise of friendship, she is allowed to look. She does. She notes and appreciates the unforgiving stilettos that strap to Santana's perfectly tanned feet. She lingers, journeying up Santana's strong legs, noting that Santana's dress, like all her others, fits her like a second skin. It's low cut, displaying that gorgeous cleavage that Santana is so proud of. She's wears a vivid bright red, because, like everything Santana chooses to be, this outfit is meant to be noticed.

Her dark brown hair flows over her shoulder in calculated curls that remind Quinn of forties lounge singer, and the result is… perfect.

Quinn finally reaches Santana's twinkling dark eyes.

"What?" Santana's head tilts. Her grin widens. "No words?"

It's not that the spell is broken, but… Quinn gets her words back.

She exhales unsteadily, and manages an unimpressed sigh as she tears her eyes away from the vision in the doorway and does her best to continue her work on herself. "What do you want me to say?" she asks airily. "You know you're gorgeous."

"Well, duh," she hears, and hates how she takes notice of the way Santana steps into the bathroom. "But it's always nice to be told, Quinn."

"Leave the door open."

Quinn blurts the words, and they catch Santana by surprise. She pauses, her hand on the door, before her dark eyes dart from the door to Quinn.

She remembers. Maybe she sees the ghosts too, the way Santana stood exactly where Quinn stood before… the way they wanted each other so openly.

Her hand goes unsteady, and in frustration, Quinn recaps her lipstick, searching instead for her blush. She forces herself not look into the reflection.

"Don't trust me?" Santana's voice is meant to be teasing, but it's laced with something. Whatever it is… is affecting.

What does it mean when the person she doesn't trust is herself?

Quinn waits until she can control her tone, keep her expression neutral. "I never trust you," she says, eyes lifting as her mouth widens into a bitchy smirk. Santana rolls her eyes, and it's good. It keeps the status quo. "But that's beside the point."

"God," Santana sighs, and shuts the door anyway. "Don't tell me you're actually honoring Kurt's stupid 'open door' policy."

"It's called being polite."

"It's New Year's Eve!" Santana says emphatically, and presses her hips against the vanity, eyes on her friend as she continues to work on her face. "Who has time for polite?"

Quinn has to admit, she has a point. Still, she's thankful for the fact that Santana keeps her hands to herself, crossed and over her chest as she watches Quinn sweep the blush across her cheekbones. "You look good, Quinn."

She doesn't say Quinn looks beautiful.

Quinn doesn't know why she's grateful for that. The brush comes down, and Quinn stares into the mirror, focusing on her figure… her face. "I don't know what to do with my hair," she admits.

Santana exhales through her nose, and pushes off the vanity, stepping up behind her to dig her fingers in Quinn's long blonde locks and tangle them up experimentally. "You wanna put it up?" she asks.

She's asking as a friend. Santana is doing what they've done for years: best friends primping and polishing each other, making sure they look their absolute best.

She hates how different it feels. How her eyes flutter at just the briefest of touches. How Santana's breath skating past her exposed neck causes a shudder that she's absolutely sure Santana has to notice.

She looks into the mirror and looks into Santana's eyes.

Dark eyes regard her just as intensely, but Santana doesn't say a word.

"I'll need help," she manages.

"Pass me thembobby pins, then," Santana says after a moment, and so Quinn does. It's sweet… in a way. They're quiet and Quinn holds obediently still as Santana twists her hair and expertly pins it, the way she's donefor years.

"Sometimes I think about cutting it again," she admits, as Santana arranges a lock to fall delicately over her brow.

Distracted, Santana offers a proud smirk. "Well, I do give a fabulous haircut, if I do say so myself."

Quinn laughs, eyes rolling at the idea and the memory. "Yeah, cause that turned out so well."

"What? It was hot!"

Maybe. Santana isn't looking at her. She's got a pin in her mouth, and her brow is wrinkled, focused on the task at hand. It brings with it a vulnerability to Santana that Quinn decides she's actually lucky to see.

She and Santana have been anything but good for each other, both as friends and… whatever this muddiness is. And yet there have been moments in between all that that have been so intimate… meant so much…

No one has ever had the capacity to wound Quinn and still warm her heart, create such extreme highs and lows with her affection the way Santana can.

It's frightening, how similar they are.

So why was it so easy to drift apart? How did they even get to the point where she allowed her own pettiness to override her concern for a friend who was so obviously hurting?

Had Santana never shown up in New Haven, would Quinn even think of her now?

Santana tugs lightly. Quinn's eyes close for a sacred, tender moment as she allows herself to be played with. When her eyes open, she's greeted with Santana's gorgeous smile.

This beautiful woman is staring at her as if she's the only woman in the world.

Santana fingers reach over to skim across her cheek, curling an errant strand over Quinn's dainty ear. "There. Gorgeous. They won't know what hit them."

She is. She's gorgeous. They're gorgeous, standing together in perfect contrast. "You know, sometimes I miss this."

She means their friendship. Their closeness. The way Santana smiles at her and the sweetness of her smell. The way they can simply just BE together.

And yet what she means and what the words turn into are not the same thing.

Not when Santana's so close, pressed in behind her, with dark smoky eyes and a perfect, kissable mouth.

Fingers brush against her the sensitive skin of her neck, and suddenly Santana's intent doesn't seem so innocent anymore.

"What do you miss, Quinn?" she hears, in a tone so low and full of meaning Quinn can't help the way her body responds, blood rushing hard to that ache between her legs that makes her want so badly.

The door slams open with a bang, so loud and forceful both Quinn and Santana jump, landing on opposite ends of the bathroom.

Kurt's eyes are wild. He stares at them both with a maniacal stare that seems incomprehensible. "What's going on in here?!" he shrieks.

"WHAT THE FUCK, KURT?!" Santana snaps.

Kurt is unapologetic. "Open Door Policy!" He snaps, and kicks a doorstop against the wooden door, wedging it open. "And stop hogging the bathroom. We were supposed to leave for the bar twenty minutes ago."

There is one more pointed glare, and then Kurt backs out of the bathroom, looking like some sort of demented troll. "Open door!"

"I think we scarred him," Quinn notes in the quiet that follows.

Santana stares at her, looking so furious that Quinn finds herself giggling.

"Whatever," Santana says after a moment, so grumpy that it's adorable. She takes one more look at Quinn, before she moves to the open exit. "I don't know what the friggin rush is. Do I even want to know what kind of bar Kurt and Rachel consider cool?"

* * *

Quinn isn't sure why she is at all surprised that the answer to that question is a piano bar in New York near the NYADA campus called 'Callbacks'. It's filled the brim, and the minute they're within sight of it, Rachel squeals and begins an animated conversation with both Brody and Kurt about the songs they're going to sing when they get there.

Bringing up the rear, palm curled into Quinn's elbow, Santana could not look more disgusted. She stops immediately, and emits a noise that could be a squawk or something that sounds very much like the snort that the horse she rode during her childhood equestrian classes made when he disagreed with her.

"We're at a Karaoke Bar for New Years?" she asks, brow arched so high on her head it nearly disappears. "Tell me this is a joke."

Quinn doesn't have the heart to break it to her that this is all entirely sincere. She simply squeezes her hand, and offers a smirk. "Not what you had in mind?"

Rachel glances back and notices. She's beautiful tonight. Her hair is curled in a wispy way that frames her face perfectly, and her eyes are dark and shining. She smiles and it's a little breathtaking, before she hops over a puddle of melting snow that looks slushy enough to slip in. She grabs hold of both of their wrists and pulls, dragging them towards the madness.

"Welcome to New York, Santana," she says, broad and stunning and looking so at home it's disconcerting. "You're gonna love it here."

At the very least, it gets them walking. Rachel only lets go when Brody curls an arm around her waist, picking her up as If she were a newborn kitten and hauling her to the entrance of the bar.

"She's demented," Santana breathes, but there's something in her eyes as she watches the dramatic trio in front of them.

For Quinn, the world stills.

On Christmas Eve she was alone in New Haven. There's so much anger inside of her that it overtakes her so easily along with her bitterness. And yet… not nearly two weeks later it's New Year's Eve.

Quinn is in New York City and it's frigid. Around her there are shouts of laughter and cars that honk. Quinn blinks when a snowflake lands daintily on her eyelid.

In front of her is the laughing, gorgeous form of Rachel Berry, who held her when she cried and told her it was okay to be scared. Beside her is Santana, who curls into her for warmth and support, who looks at her with a disturbed smile that is so quintessentially her.

Quinn's confusion persists, but there is something inside her that settles in a way that makes it feel less like confusion and more like hope.

Quinn has been called evil, selfish, manipulative and callous so many times.

She wasn't sure when she stared believing that could be true.

It's not. Quinn is not without faults, but she has her strengths too.

She's alive and well on New Years Eve, with friends who love her, despite everything she has chosen to be and not to be.

"Quinn?"

She meets Santana's uncertain expression with a whisper and a grin. "She's also right."

It's enough. Tonight, it's enough.

* * *

It's only when they've managed to squeeze together at a tiny table that should realistically only seat four, that Kurt turns to them both and lays his elbows on the table.

"Okay, Satan," he begins, all business despite the near shout –level decibel he has to keep his voice in the noisy piano bar. "Considering the … incidents that have already happened..." His eyes flicker accusingly between Quinn and Santana.

Quinn supposes it's the magic of New Years that makes it so easy not to care that Santana is practically in her lap. There are legitimate reasons for the way Santana is curled into her side – there's not much room. But she supposes that if she had to logically give a purpose for why her arm crosses over back of Santana's chair, allowing the other woman to practically sink in against her, she wouldn't have one other than she wants her close.

Santana smells good. She feels good. And Quinn has a promise; a reprieve that tonight is a night without consequence. There is no Brittany or David or harsh choices or smart decisions. There is only desire and want and the simple pleasure of being with someone she is attracted to; someone she loves; someone she trusts.

Rachel stares at her, clearly trying to say something with those large doe eyes, but the atmosphere of this little Piano Bar is joyous and freeing. Quinn lets her stare, as her fingers curl and rub affectionately and rhythmically against Santana's shoulder.

A warm palm is already on her leg, spread possessively and intimately against her thigh. It squeezes, molding into Quinn's muscles with heat and an addicting tingle that shoots up her leg.

"It's time to talk Ground Rules," Kurt snaps, looking a little exasperated. Quinn snorts, but the smile falters when he opens his jacket pocket and produces what looks like an actual scroll, bound by dainty little leather straps.

The scroll is unrolled before them, skidding to a stop as it flows over the wood.

"What the hell is this?" Santana asks, and Quinn curiously reaches forward with her free hand, bringing it over to their side of the table. There is an extreme amount of calligraphy on the lilac-colored page.

"It's a contract."

Santana, clearly suspicious, lifts her hand off of Quinn's thigh to reach for the paper. She shoots Quinn a look that practically screams annoyance, and brings the offending article to her nose. "It's scented!"

Quinn can't help but huff in amused disbelief. Kurt is unrepentant. "That loft is our sanctuary, and it can be yours if you just abide by the rules."

Santana drops the paper. Quinn, always an avid reader, picks it up gamely. "Okay, hold up, Lady Hummel. I never said I was living with you two."

Rachel, happily settled on Brody's lap, gives Santana a look that reminds Quinn very much of an adult speaking to a child. "Santana, come on. You know you belong here."

Quinn rolls her eyes. She continues to scan the roommate contract, and purses her lips at the prose. It begins, interestingly enough, like a mock declaration of independence.

_When in the Course of human co-habitation, it becomes necessary for one people to acknowledge the bonds of friendship which have connected them with another, a decent respect to the opinions of the other..._

"Shouldn't that be my decision?"

Quinn keeps reading, skimming past the flowery declaration that makes no sense, except for the part where Rachel and Kurt declare themselves platonic soul mates forever, and moves on to the aforementioned Ground Rules.

"And it is," Rachel's tone is adorably patronizing, though Quinn is pretty sure Santana won't appreciate the cuteness of it. "But if you decide on living here-"

An unexpected chortle breaks out of her mouth. "Rule 9 is that every Thursday you watch Rupaul's Drag Race and then debate the winner."

"That's non-negotiable."

Santana's hand once again lands on her thigh, though the squeeze she delivers seems less affectionate and more a plea for sanity. "Are you serious? Even Donkey the Ken Doll?"

Brody opens his mouth and then closes it, head lowering in what Quinn can only presume is shame. Her suspicions are proven correct when Rachel wordlessly pulls out her cellphone and cheekily flashes them a picture of the very handsome Brody, posing quite prettily in one of Rachel's dresses, puckering his cherry red made-up lips and batting his impeccable gorgeous false eyelashes.

"Wow," she laughs, and Brody sighs in defeat.

"Dude, where are your balls?!" Santana squeaks.

"I get really drunk on Thursday nights," he admits.

It's clear that Santana one step away from either going 'All Lima Heights' or slipping into a catatonic shock. "I think I need to get really drunk right now."

It's a rare occasion where Quinn can understand Santana's pain. "I'm on that," she says, pressing reassuringly against Santana's shoulder before she begins the tricky process of scooting out her chair.

"I'll go with you!" Brody says quickly, ready for a break from the embarrassment.

"See? That's my fucking girl," Santana quips proudly, which Quinn supposes is just as good as thank you. The palming slap she receives on the ass, however, is less than complimentary.

Quinn nearly trips on the chair. She whirls, ready to deliver an affronted glare but Santana only smiles and blows her a sweet little kiss. "Love you, Q."

What a bitchy brat.

And yet she still grabs her purse and turns on her heel, ready to head in the general direction of the bar. "Which brings up Clause #1: Sex in the Loft," she hears.

"Holy shit – are you kidding me?"

"There are drapes instead of doors," Kurt snaps. "We do not kid about this."

"QUINN!" Santana cries after her desperately. "I need like… five shots."

* * *

Yes, absolutely, there is a freedom that's associated with tonight, and Quinn is fully aware that she has own rationalization about acting purely on will without worrying about the consequences. It's the magic of New Year's Eve.

Despite that, Quinn has no wish for the resurgence of Weepy!Santana OR Angry!Quinn.

Instead of ice cold Patron shots, she chooses to order Santana a Cadillac Margarita, and sticks with her usual glass of wine. But the bar is packed with thirsty drinkers, and the bartenders are overloaded. She and Brody can only wait patiently until they can be noticed.

"So is she always that… spirited?"

Rachel's boyfriend is looking quizzically back at the table, where Quinn discovers Santana with the scroll now crumpled in her hand, and a lighter underneath it, shouting empathically in Spanish. Kurt and Rachel are squealing, lunging for their precious contract.

"No," she admits, but she can't help the smile on her face, as Santana abandons the lighter and instead reaches for a tube of lipstick. "This is actually her subdued. I'm actually kind of amazed that she's taking this so… calmly."

Santana smears a line of red across the parchment, shaking her head emphatically. Kurt nearly faints. "This is calm?!"

Santana crosses out yet another line of the contract she doesn't agree with, and Rachel's jaw drops open. "Let's just put it this way," Quinn says, attempting to sound reasonable. "If freshman year Santana time traveled to now, and realized that she was about to cohabitate with Kurt Hummel and Rachel Berry? There wouldn't need to be an intervention because she would have already checked herself into an asylum."

Brody frowns. "Rachel and Kurt are cool though."

"Rachel and Kurt are very cool," she agrees immediately. "Unfortunately, Santana and I didn't always quite see it that way."

The bartender finally sees them, and Quinn places her order, alongside Brody who goes for the typical beer on tap for himself and two Cosmos for Rachel and Kurt.

Quinn watches the bartender work, oddly fascinated with the easy way he reaches for the glasses, digs for ice and begins pouring.

"So how long have you and Santana been together?"

Her blood runs cold. Quinn's head whips, pinning Brody with such a flabbergasted stare she seems him literally step back in surprise.

"Santana and I aren't together," she says immediately.

"Oh…" Brody licks his lips and shifts his gaze, clearly trying to look anywhere but right at her.

"I'm not gay," she feels the need to say rather emphatically.

Brody blinks, and yes, it sounds ridiculous, because as far as Brody knows, she was nearly knuckle-deep in Santana just the night before, and there is an open door policy because Santana and Quinn can't be trusted not to maul each other in the bathroom. And she has been attached at the hip with Santana since this morning, and yes, they are now standing at the bar getting drinks for their girls, and …

Dammit.

"Allright," he says, and drums his hand on the bar, looking very thankful when his beer is being sloshed toward him. "That's cool." He nods mechanically. Quinn has no idea what to say. Brody takes a swig and apparently can't quite stand the uncomfortable silence. "I mean I guess I just assumed-"

"-I'm confused." Quinn blinks, and mentally groans, because that was a very unintentional word vomit.

To his credit, Brody takes it in stride. "Fair enough."

Quinn stares, but Brody's expression doesn't change. He just simply regards her, and continues to drink his beer, like she's just told him the latest superbowl score… or whatever it is guys talk about.

At the table, Kurt has finally regained possession of his scroll, and is rerolling the stained parchment for safekeeping. He's pointing a finger angrily at Santana, and Rachel apparently has given up altogether. Her head is literally flat against the table.

Santana shrugs at them stonily. Rachel, without lifting her head, raises her hand, as if she's waiting to be called on.

Santana's eyes shift and capture hers. She arches a brow, but the smirk she gives is quiet and secret, as if it's reserved for Quinn and Quinn alone.

Quinn's insides flutter. She inhales unsteadily. "I just… things are happening really, really fast," she admits quietly. Brody's lips quirk, but he nods silently. Quinn's fingers twist against each other as she leans against the bar. "And I'm not sure if they should happen, but I also don't know…" Quinn hesitates. Brody isn't Kurt, or Rachel. He isn't going to bring up Brittany, or Quinn's sexuality or she and Santana's nasty habit of dissolving into slapfights. He doesn't know any of that.

Quinn doesn't know why it makes it easier, but it does. "I just love her." She once again spares a glance for Santana. Her gorgeous best friend has apparently gotten control of her temper; she has reached over the table and is attempting to fluff Kurt's carefully made up pompadour. He's batting her away like she's a gnat. "Lately I've been realizing how much."

"Well yeah, I mean… that's obvious."

The quiet introspection dissipates immediately. Quinn immediately turns her attention back to Brody. "What's obvious?"

Brody is in a middle of another gulp, and he puts up a finger, signaling for patience before he exhales in satisfaction and continues conversationally, "That you love her."

Holy fuck. "That's obvious?" she squeaks.

He frowns, head tilting as he considers it. "Pretty obvious," he says easily, shrugging as if this isn't absolutely devastating.

And it is. It's devastating. Quinn suddenly feels so exposed she may as well be naked. Her face flushes hot, and Quinn seeks shelter, turning into the bar and burying her head in her hands. "Shit."

"Hey, it's cool." A heavy, male hand lands on her shoulder, patting awkwardly. Brody's odd attempt at comfort.

"It's cool?" she hisses, head lifting to glare at him.

"Yeah!" he says, because he's an idiot. "It's cool. So you love her. What's the big deal?"

Her champagne is finally placed in front of her, along with Santana's margarita. Quinn hastily hands over her card and with trembling hands, reaches for the glass thankfully.

"You obviously do not know our history," she mutters.

"Maybe that's a good thing," he muses. Quinn's eyes narrows, but he only smiles his big dopey handsome smile, unaffected. "Maybe you need someone who doesn't know you or your history to tell you that what you're feeling is okay." Quinn doesn't quite know how to respond. That seems to be okay. Brody clinks his beer against her glass companionably, and continues softly, "Everyone gets confused Quinn. But love is love, and everyone deserves to be happy. And honestly?" he adds, straightening and puffing out that big burly chest of his. "It's pretty obvious that that girl loves you right back."

It's inappropriately wise and deep, considering the source. "What are you, some kinda hot stud Yoda?"

"Me?" Brody's breath flushes out between his pursed lips and shakes his head emphatically. "Nah. That was from a monologue I memorized for a workshop." Quinn's eyes close, and her shoulders shake in relieved mirth. "I mean I had to change a couple of the pronouns, but… it's deep, right?"

Quinn exhales, laughing in exasperation and resigned amusement. "Yeah, it's deep."

"Cool," he says, obviously proud of himself. He grabs hold of Rachel and Kurt's cosmos, and then glances at her own two drinks. "Want me to get take that for you?"

"I'm good, thanks."

He smiles, ready to turn when a hand smacks him hard on his shoulder. Quinn straightens, confused until she sees Santana come around him, placing herself neatly between herself and Brody.

"That'll do, Donkey. That'll do."

Santana's hand slips around her waist, and Quinn frowns as Santana pulls at her, nestling Quinn firmly into her side. She doesn't even look at Quinn as she does it. Her brown eyes are firmly fixed on Brody.

Quinn frowns, unsure what to make of it. Brody appears to be in the same boat. "What?"

Santana lips purse. Her elbow rests against the bar, and she makes an actual show of inspecting Brody from head to toe before she huffs, unimpressed. "The only fun Rachel is a drunk Rachel," she announces without preamble. "So how 'bout you stop getting all up on my girl Quinn here, and get your girl some booze?"

Holy crap, Santana's jealous.

Startled, Brody offers Quinn a wild glance before he immediately begins shaking his head. "I wasn't-"

Santana's brow rises in challenge. Her arm only tightens around Quinn, staking her claim.

Quinn isn't sure if she's annoyed or pleased, but what she is sure of is that this is not a battle Brody is quite up for, especially considering the way the last battle of wills between Santana and Brody turned out. When he stares at her for obvious help, she only shakes her head in subtle warning.

He takes the hint. "Right… I'm gonna take these to Rachel and Kurt."

"Yes, you do that," Santana says, and keeps her gaze pinned on him until he physically turns from them. "Fiona and Lord Farquad are waiting."

Even as Brody leaves, Santana's possessive hold doesn't give. She merely rearranges herself to better reach the bar, taking her margarita with a happy smirk. "Fuck, that's good."

Quinn regards her, watches in the lowlight of the bar how Santana seems suddenly innocent and sweet, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the tequila and offering her a happy squeeze.

"He wasn't hitting on me," she says flatly.

"Pfft," Santana says, rolling her eyes at her presumed naivety. "Whatever. That dude is sketchy. I don't like him."

Quinn reaches for her champagne and takes a resigned sip. "Please don't be one of those man hating lesbians," she sighs.

Santana offers an indignant huff. "Offensive!" she snaps. "I don't hate all men! Just the ones who are macking on my girl."

There it is again. Quinn's heart jumps in that agonizing, annoying way. It goes right into her throat, and Quinn's eyes close for a brief moment, before she gains the strength to swallow it back into place. "You keep saying that," she says carefully, easily. "You have no girls, Santana," she reminds her flatly.

She stares hard at Santana, but Santana keeps her gaze on her margarita. She raises the salted glass to her lips and drinks for a long time. "Who says I don't?" Santana asks in a husky, uneven tone.

Quinn's lips press together.

Santana waits, and suddenly her expression changes. "Fine," she says after a moment, and removes her arm from Quinn. "God, Sorry."

"Santana-"

"I said Sorry! Shit."

She could start a fight now. She could outright accuse Santana of jealousy; accuse her of unfairly painting Brody in a bad light. She could resent the way Santana took hold of her and demand some sort of explanation. She could tell Santana that this isn't fair, because they haven't figured any of it out, and who says she has any right to want Quinn right now when she obviously still wants Brittany?

She could do so many things.

Their night will end in a fight, as usual. They will scream at each other and hurt each other and never resolve anything.

They'll probably slap each other again. Quinn will board that New Haven-bound train angry and resentful, and when David calls, she will probably answer, falling back into her bitterness and resigned apathy.

It's tempting even now, because at least THEN Quinn will understand how this will all turn out.

"It's just a fucking joke, Quinn," Santana snaps, because Quinn still hasn't said anything and it's clearly affecting her. "Go flirt with as many plastic Ken blow up dolls as you want, okay?"

"Oh will you get over yourself?!" Quinn angrily retorts, because she can't help but get really pissed off.

"You first," Santana snarls, and Quinn winces in frustration, because here they go again.

"_Love, love, love." _The piano has begun to play, and with it is a blend of familiar voices that catch Quinn's attention. She glances up towards the stage, and discovers Brody, Rachel and Kurt crowded on the small stage. Brody's smile is broad, and his smile is for her as he winks in their direction. _"Love, love, love." _

"_There's nothing you can do that can't be done_," Rachel begins with that gorgeous voice of hers. _"Nothing you can sing that can't be sung - Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game,"_ she leans back into her studly boyfriend. _"It's easy!"_

Quinn blinks, unsure what to think of it.

Santana seems to agree. "Are they kidding?!" She huffs in disbelief.

"_All you need is love,"_ Kurt croons, arm slung around Rachel. "_All you need is love."_

It's… sweet.

"No," Quinn says, unexpected laughter coating her words. "I don't think they are." And God, it makes sense.

Yes, Santana is a jealous, possessive bitch when she has absolutely no right to be, this is absolutely true.

But she loves her. And it's New Year's Eve.

And so Quinn exhales slowly, and places her champagne back on the bar. "Santana," she whispers, just loud enough for only her friend to hear. Dark brown eyes stare curiously at her, somehow unsure and a little afraid, if Quinn really wants to look for that emotion.

Quinn decides.

She leans in, eyes fluttering closed as her forehead tips against Santana's brow, soaking in the words as her friends sing. Santana exhales, nearly trembles against her, as Quinn just breathes her in.

Quinn's forehead tilts, just until her lips brush softly against Santana's mouth.

"_All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need." _

She will let Santana claim her, if only for this one night.

But Quinn is selfish, and she has one caveat.

In exchange, she'll give in to temptation and claim her right back.

_End chapter _


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: This is a shorter chapter. I'm caught in about a million deadlines and this is probably the last chapter I'll be able to write before I go out of the country next week. So please enjoy and hopefully I can be back with an extra long chapter next time to make up for it. Once again, thank you so much for all the reviews and support. I appreciate you taking the time to take this journey with me. Only wish I had more time to deliver the goods! Oh, also, this will always be a Quinntana story and there WILL be a happy ending. That's kinda what I do. ;)_

**Part Nine. But I'll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 2****  
**

There's a part of Quinn that understands exactly what it is she's doing. She's studying to be an actor, and with that comes all sorts of introspection and discussion about motivation and actions. Quinn may not have always been beautiful, but she has always been smart. She doesn't limit that study to her dramatic scenes in a classroom, but can't help but extend it to her real life as well.

Quinn knows she is drawing lines in the sand and then erasing them, only to draw them in again. She's banking so much on the supposed 'magic' of New Year's Eve, using what is honestly just another day as an excuse to move past her own boundaries and indulge herself.

And yes, it's not a good idea, and i_yes/i_, Quinn understands there is so much about this that's unhealthy, but she has always been determined. And truthfully, even if there were no paltry excuses, Quinn knows that she would have regrets either way.

At least with this choice, she gets to feel good for an evening.

The NYADA crowd is eccentric and loud and all too theatric, but she's a drama major and a Glee alum and there's something about all this that feel refreshingly familiar and dangerously like home.

Quinn spends the majority of this evening vastly amused, and yet it feels even deeper than that. She's… happy.

The joy and anticipation that escalates through the crowded bar with every tick on the clock as midnight draws nearer is hard to ignore. Quinn feels the pleasant buzz of wine and laughter; it flows through her veins with a mellow sweetness. Her mouth aches from smiling, because a tipsy Kurt is absolutely hilarious and a tipsy Rachel is even more hilarious and more than a little clingy. And unlike Finn, who always seemed a little annoyed at Rachel's cackling and the way Rachel seems to lose her volume button when she has more than one drink in her, Brody seems to be in that honeymoon stage of the budding relationship where everything his girlfriend does, even while drunk, is sexy and adorable.

She's not sure if that relationship has a prayer of going anywhere serious, but for right now it seems… right for Rachel. Her sometimes overly-dramatic (though really who is she to talk?) friend is finally living in the present, without an engagement ring on her finger or the pressure of worrying at every moment what next step will determine her future. She's on the right path and for the moment, that's good enough.

It makes Quinn want to follow her example.

Santana's body is warm and solid against her. She's loud and boisterous; her eyes sparkle with her own form of joy. And though they are here with her friends, it's understood, more importantly, that Santana is here i_with her/i_.

It's different than it used to be. Senior year, back when Santana was with Brittany and Quinn was, for the moment, at peace with who she had become and where she was going, she and Santana had reconnected. She remembered casual touches, sweet little smiles begotten from the nostalgia of it all.

Now there is intention behind every caress; a bold declaration that states to everyone in this bar that they are more than friends. Quinn's fingers thread lightly through Santana's, idly caressing as they sit and watch Brody perform 'Float On' on that tiny stage. The lyrics are so happy-go-lucky and free they seem to define Brody completely, but that's not what Quinn thinks about.

Instead, she thinks about slender fingers and the tingles they produce and how they leave her a little breathless and a lot turned on. She thinks about the way Santana's smaller, feminine form settles in against her and how it seems so natural for them to sit so intimately. It should feel strange, shouldn't it? Quinn's had boyfriends all her life; she knows what men feel like. She appreciates their broad shoulders and solid physique, and the way they smell differently than she does. She used to like being cradled, curled into bulky arms. She used to be fine with running fingers across big forearms with coarse hair and feeling blunt fingernails across her own delicate fingers.

It made her feel safe.

This… doesn't feel the same. And yet…

It's intoxicating.

This is unique. It's Quinn who does the cradling. It's Quinn who curls her own arms around Santana's feminine shoulders, who runs fingers over soft skin and shoulders bare except for that tiny strap. Who shivers as manicured fingernails scratch lightly against her smooth forearm in response. Santana's scented hairspray and her perfume linger in her nostrils, because Quinn's so close her chin brushes against Santana's scalp, and every time she laughs, Quinn feels the vibration back against her own chest. Santana's free hand, the one not currently tangled loosely with Quinn's, once again palms her bare thigh, burning heat into her skin, intimately unaware. They whisper together; Santana's lips brush against her cheek and then her ear every time she reaches back to say something meant for her ears only.

If no one knew them, if they were total strangers, they would look at Quinn and Santana and the way they're tangled up in each other, and they would think they were girlfriends. It's secretly thrilling.

And it's funny. She holds Santana the way Sam and Finn used to hold her, years ago in an old choir room. God… she can't imagine this ever happening in Glee Club.

But it's happening here in New York, and Quinn doesn't know why it feels so SPECIAL to be the one doing the holding.

Maybe it's because Santana is actually letting her. Maybe it's because for once this seems easy, and nothing with Santana has ever been easy.

Fingers curl against her inner thigh, scratching lightly in such a way Quinn finds herself biting down on her lower lip and shifting in her seat. The way she does it causes Santana's hand to fall further in between her legs.

"What's going on?" she hears. The fingers skim again, further under her skirt. Quinn sucks in her breath. Her head lifts sharply to discover Santana watching her carefully with dancing brown eyes.

Kurt has long since abandoned them to go flirt with a group of boys across the room. Rachel is in that state of intoxication where she is blissfully unaware of anything but Brody leading the crowd through the rousing chorus of his classic pop tune.

It gives them a sort of private bubble, even in this crowded bar.

"What do you mean?" she asks, but her tone is low… coated in a way that makes it completely obvious how Santana's touch is affecting her.

That dangerous smirk widens. Long fingers slide further underneath, to the point where they're now drawing light circles at the edge of her thong. "You're zoning, and leaving me to have to deal with the horror of this 'performance' on my own."

A knuckle brushes up directly against her.

Quinn's teeth clamp down on her lower lip. Her fingers tighten against Santana's; the flush of wetness that has now become stickily obvious to her makes it… difficult to concentrate.

Her eyes widen with the shock of it, but Santana's hooded look is unrepentant. "Look at the stage, Q. It's gross."

Quinn's wonders how she can be aware of anything now, not with the way that single digit teasingly skims across the fabric of her thong, pressing in ever so lightly. Still, she somehow manages to obey.

On stage, Brody has been replaced by Kurt and a group of NYADA dorks that have launched quite readily into a piano performance of 'I Was Made For Loving You'.

"Oh God," she half-whispers, unsure if she can even trust her voice. "… Is he really singing KISS?"

"It's like Gay KidzBop," Santana says airly, noses against her cheek until she reaches her ear. Quietly, for Quinn only, she whispers, "I can smell how wet you are for me."

"Fuck." It's an unfortunate outburst, but by now the bar is rowdy and loud, and her moan is drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Kurt is doing this weird thrust-shimmy combination, and it's nearly horrific enough to give her back SOME measure of control.

But all Santana betrays is an uneven chuckle, before that knuckle retreats, giving her just a bit of relief before the palm spreads wide and squeezes her thigh hard.

It's all she can do to keep from bucking her hips.

"Santana!" she hisses. Rachel woops hard and loud, slamming hard down on the rickety table, nearly overturning their drinks.

"DO THE CHANT!" she shrieks, and gives them both a wild, glassy eyed grin. Flushed and breathless, Quinn can only manage a shaky smile back. That seems to be good enough for Rachel, because she shouts, "I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH."

"You know what else you love?" Santana remarks, infuriatingly calm against her. "Vodka."

"YES!" Rachel agrees vehemently. "Vodka is AMAZING." Two fingers press in against her now, directly over her clit, smoothing deliberately on her. "Quinn, are you okay?" Rachel asks, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing. "You look really flushed!"

"The bar is really hot," is what she manages, and it's a terribly lame excuse, but Rachel's also drunk so…

"You do look flushed, Quinn," Santana says, leaning back to inspect her face with mock concern. "Are you okay?" Quinn lips press together. Her legs tremble and she's sure she's gripping Santana's fingers so tightly that it must hurt. Still, Santana's fingers dart back and skim teasingly against the lining of her underwear. "Because I'm sure Rachel's Plastic Ken Doll will be happy to go get you some water."

Quinn grits her teeth and breathes hard out of her nose, glaring hard at the gorgeous woman who is so easily dismantling her with fingers against her soaked, barely clothed sex.

God, the thong was such a horrible idea.

"Yes!" Rachel squeals, and swivels in her chair, snapping her fingers for Brody. "Brody! Water! Water for everyone!"

Rachel is distracted. Santana chooses that exact moment to dig her fingers underneath the fabric of the thong. Quinn's eyes roll back and she gasps, and it's just enough for Santana to plant her mouth against hers, and slide her tongue against her lips at the same time as her fingers mimic the action, lower down.

Her outburst is garbled. The world falls away, and Quinn's awareness falls away. Her mind is splintered, and every nerve is on fire, because Santana tongue is rubbing insistently against her own and her fingers slip and slide through her wetness, unable to find purchase because of all the moisture.

Santana's moan vibrates against her mouth; she breathes hard through her nose and licks against Quinn's teeth, fingers bold and searching, cupping against her and GOD-

The table scrapes forward, it's legs knocking on her knees, just as a cold liquid splashes on the hand that's gripping the edge of it.

Quinn's eyes open dizzily, struggling to focus as her mouth rips away from Santana and she processes a cup of water has been placed on her side of the table. Brody's smile shows all his teeth. He's settling into his chair, cheeks ruddy and flushed, beside Rachel who stares with an open-mouthed expression. Quinn has no ability to discern whether she's annoyed, flabbergasted, or turned on.

Santana's forearm flexes; trips a nail directly up her slit and she doesn't fucking care.

"There's your water," Rachel says in a tone that seems much less carefree or happy as it was a moment ago. Deprived of her mouth, Santana's lips now suckle and nip a path along Quinn's jaw, journey south until she's placing wet, lewd kisses against the sensitive column of her throat.

She's overwhelmed. Quinn's heart pounds and her body is heated. Blood rushes in her ears and every nerve is tingling, ready to explode. Her brain, usually so aware and careful, is mellowed with liquor and lit on fire by Santana's touch, and it begs her to open her legs wide, give Santana the room she needs to dip down further-

"Quinn."

_Rachel._ Right. "Thanks," she manages, doing her best to smile politely. The water actually looks amazing. Quinn is suddenly really, really parched and she wishes she trusted herself to be able to pick up that delicious looking cup and drink from it without tipping it all over herself with her failing motor functions.

"Santana," Rachel snaps, but Santana is completely one note and ignores her, lifting her head and untangling her fingers from Quinn's to take hold of her jaw and turn her mouth back into her own.

"Wow."

"Santana, you're mauling her- Quinn – GUYS."

Santana's taste features the salty sweat of her skin mingled with lingering remnants of salt and tequila. Quinn loves it. She captures Santana's bottom lip with her teeth, groaning because she's practically dripping now, and Santana can feel all of it.

There's a blast of heat and a sudden roar of applause, so much louder than before.

"SANTANA," Rachel says again, only to be followed with a much louder-

"SANTANA LOPEZ." Kurt. A very loud Kurt. Quinn opens her eyes.

It's not just Brody and Rachel staring at them now. It's the entire bar, including Kurt, who is holding a microphone to his mouth, staring at them with wide, amused eyes.

The crowd is clapping at whistling at THEM. At their display.

And Santana is fingering her under the table.

Santana is practically FUCKING her under this table.

Shit.

"Santana," she hisses, and slaps her hand from the table to between her legs, stilling Santana's movement and forcing her attention off of her.

"Finally!" Kurt laughs, loud and obnoxious because of the damn microphone.

"What the hell is going on?" Santana snaps, voice so thick with arousal Quinn's jaw clamps in reaction.

Rachel doesn't respond. Her eyes are instead fixed on the edge of the table, the way Quinn's hand disappears beneath it… the way Santana's does the same.

"We've been calling you," Brody answers instead, laughing and shaking his head. "It's your turn to sing!"

"What?" Santana asks dumbly. Though she stays close, her fingers slip from underneath Quinn's thong, coating her inner thigh with her own wetness. Quinn struggles not to grimace. Rachel notices the expression with a frown. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Quinn's heart is beating frantically. She swallows hard and reaches with shaking hands as subtly as she can for the tattered cocktail napkin that rests underneath her water.

Rachel's eyes widen.

"It's roommate initiation time!" Kurt announces to the crowd, MC-like. "Ladies and gents, tonight is a special night for many reasons, but a BIG one is that as of tonight, Rachel and I may have a new roommate! Please welcome New York's newest hellraiser and obvious lady lover, Santana Lopez!"

There's thunderous applause. Santana's pupils are dilated, her eyes are hooded and dark, and she still looks winded. She licks her swollen lips and blinks, trying to make sense of the situation. Quinn's flushed, dizzy emotion has not gone away, but it feels almost like a trip that's gone very bad.

"Fucking Kurt," Santana whispers.

She reaches underneath to stuff the napkin against Santana's hand and feels her own wetness in the process. "Go," she whispers hoarsely, because Santana looks stuck, and they have no choice.

The crowd is still applauding, getting louder by the second, and so Santana pulls away from her, the napkin crumbled in and around her fingertips as she smiles mutely at Quinn and weaves around Brody and Rachel to head for the stage.

* * *

The crowd is quiet. They're transfixed on Santana, who whispers quietly to the piano player and runs fingers through her mussed hair.

Quinn needs to go to the bathroom. Now.

She can't move.

Rachel's dark eyes have fixated on her. She seems to be the only person who is not staring at the dark-haired vixen in the red dress.

Quinn doesn't want to know what she is thinking.

Every bit of energy she has is focused on trying desperately not to panic, to calm her flushed body down, to keep herself from moaning in actual physical pain because though her mind has caught up, her groin has not quite gotten over the interruption and she's swollen and wet and it HURTS.

"Well, thank you Lady Hummel," she hears Santana say, and lifts her eyes to discover Santana settling on a stool. "For the interruption and the invitation."

The crowd laughs. Heads turn at her, like she's in on the joke. Quinn forces a smile.

"I'mma mellow this place down a bit," Santana says, and the piano man starts playing a tinkering of notes that Santana immediately begins to hum to.

_"I may not always love you…"_ The second Santana begins to sing, the room silences. _"But long as there are stars above you… You never need to doubt it… I'll make you so sure about it…" _

It's _God Only Knows_ Quinn recognizes the version, a cover arrangement by Joss Stone that is tailor made of Santana's husky lower register.

Quinn's racing heart skips. Her mouth opens in a sweet exhalation, because Santana is beautiful. She captures the room with her sheer presence, that dark-haired devil with the voice of an angel.

Long lashes flutter as Santana carries those notes. Emotion resonates with every lyric, because Santana means those words… it's written all over her face as she lifts sparkling eyes to the room and twists her hands in front of her, physically reaching for those perfect notes.

_"If you should ever leave me… Though life would still go on believe me…"_

Santana is raw… she doesn't carry Rachel's perfect pitch or Kurt's flamboyant showmanship. She's naked on that stage. It's just the girl and the song and those simple, quiet lyrics.

_"…The world could show nothing to me… So what good would living do me…" _

It's devastating, but Santana is bleeding out her soul, and the audience can see it. This is why Santana belongs in New York, belongs on any stage at all. She has made that tiny stage her home, and the patrons, NYADA students who all carry talent like most people carry wallets, are transfixed, spellbound in the same way Quinn is.

_"God only knows what I'd be without you."_

No… not the same way.

Quinn's eyes sting with tears, and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her chest rises and falls as she stares helplessly at Santana.

It's not the same way at all.

They're falling in love with a star.

Quinn is already in love. Helplessly, desperately in love with a woman and a naked heart who is bleeding words for a long lost love that could never be her.

A hand presses down on her palm. Quinn's glistening eyes open, as Rachel takes hold of her hand and with a quiet, somber expression, tugs and lifts away from her seat.

Once again, Quinn takes her strength from Rachel.

She allows Rachel to pull her to the back of the bar; towards the bathroom.

Santana's lost in her song. In those words.

Quinn knows she doesn't see them leave.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part Ten. But I'll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 3**

It's an absolute miracle that the bathroom is empty. Callbacks is a small bar and so it comes with an even smaller ladies room. For some odd reason, the fates have decided to finally be kind. As Rachel leads Quinn through the door and into the surprisingly well kept toilet room, with its two regular and one handicapped stalls, there is only one woman drying her hands. She flashes them both a small smile before scurrying around them and towards the exit.

As she drifts through the open doorway, Santana's haunting melody floats in. Quinn swallows hard and decides it must not be fate so much as the magnetism of Santana's performance that keeps the bathroom empty and the Callbacks audience transfixed.

She ducks her head and heads into a stall, losing her strength the moment she sits down.

Outside, she hears Rachel's quiet shuffles, ready and waiting for the moment that Quinn emerges after … collecting herself.

It makes her want to stay in this stupid toilet stall for as long as she can.

_i"It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down the rabbit-hole-and yet-and yet-..."/i_

It's kinda funny, the way the quote comes without prompting, popping into her head like a misguided narrator.

Quinn takes a breath to steel her insides before matter-of-factly reaching for the cheap toilet paper, taking more than she needs as she lifts herself on shaky legs and cleans herself.

It's privately mortifying, the way that tissue slides so easily through the wetness, nearly skidding against her most intimate parts.

"Quinn…"

She sucks in a trembling breath, glancing up sharply at the closed stall. Through the slight opening between the door and the stall, she catches a glimpse of Rachel, who leans her hip against the sink and awkwardly checks her make up in the mirror.

"I'll be right out," she calls out with a hoarse voice.

The tears that threatened to spill over so easily have receded at least, and for that she's grateful. Away from the melodic haunt of Santana's voice, Quinn's aching heart seems to manage.

She finishes, flushing the toilet and straightening her posture as she heads out of the stall and towards the sink. She doesn't speak as she starts methodically washing her hands, but she can't help but be aware of the way Rachel is staring.

She glances up and catches the worried reflection in the mirror.

"Don't," she says immediately, the moment Rachel's mouth starts to open.

Rachel blinks. She takes a moment, and then her mouth shuts and her arms cross. "Don't what?"

The alcohol that rushes through her has lost its buzz, but her tendency to anger licks at her subconscious.

"Don't say anything," Quinn snaps, because she doesn't need it. She doesn't need Rachel following her and getting her alone and speaking to every single doubt festering in her head, giving those thoughts life and power.

But Rachel surprises her. A strong chin comes up and Rachel merely comes up beside her and turns on the tap to the sink beside her, joining her in washing her hands. "What is there exactly to say?"

Quinn's actions momentarily stall. Rachel continues washing her hands, pressing the tab for the soap and rubbing it over here palms. "Quinn, honestly? I'm kinda at a loss for words." Rachel's eyes lift up and catch Quinn's in the reflection in the mirror. "Well I'm still a little drunk," she admits, in a way that would be funny in any other situation, "And one of my friends was literally actually fingering one of my other friends at a table less than a foot away from me," she explains, and Quinn feels the heat immediately rise on her cheeks, making her flush horribly. "So … my mind is a little blown right now."

Yeah…

Quinn looks up and regards herself – this Alice in the mirror. "Well, that makes two of us."

She meant to keep Rachel's light tone, to match it with her own, because what can she honestly say in response? She doesn't succeed. Rachel's eyes grow somber, and she regards her in that careful way that tells Quinn she has revealed too much.

The door opens suddenly, bringing with it a rousing burst of applause that tells Quinn immediately that Santana has finished her song. The woman who has come in hesitates, looking at them and the stalls.

"We're not waiting," Quinn says, and nods in their direction. The girl smiles gratefully and immediately locks herself in the nearest.

It's awkward, listening to a stranger pee.

Rachel sidles in closer, until she's pressed in gently to Quinn's side. "You don't know that she was singing that song to Brittany, Quinn." She's speaking low and quiet for Quinn's benefit, but it's a ridiculous statement and Quinn finds herself scoffing with irritation.

"Who was she singing it to?" she asks, shooting Rachel an exasperated look. "Me?"

Rachel stares at her. "Sometimes a song is just a song."

"Is a song ever _ijust/i_ a song to you, Rachel?"

It's a valid point, and it shuts Rachel up, because Rachel understands. Rachel sang sonnets and ballads every week to Finn, pouring her soul out to him on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

The girl emerges, and Rachel and Quinn shift, allowing her to wash her hands. She looks at them both and offers another awkward smile. "Happy New Year!"

They respond in kind, and she leaves after a moment of quick primping, an action so uncomplicated Quinn envies her.

"Look, this is none of my business," Rachel says, breaking into the quiet after the stranger's exit. "But Quinn… you're falling in love with her." Quinn's posture stiffens. She presses her lips together, and it's all she can do to keep from choking at the way her heart jumps into her throat. "And I think you know that."

Rachel's ventured into her own form of resignation, like this is inevitable. Somehow, it makes Quinn smile – a painful twerk of her lips that feels almost like a relief. "It's kinda funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Growing up," she answers, and thinks of Alice and the rabbit hole, and Brittany and Santana, with their linked pinkies and unicorn hats. She thinks of Beth; her one perfect thing. "You think falling in love is this magical thing. You would love them. They would love you. Like a Disney movie," she whispers, and the image returns of Brittany and her Disney DVDs, happily hopping on the couch and bouncing on Santana's lap as she forces Quinn to choose. "A happy ending. A fairy tale. No one ever warned any of us it would be this terrifying."

The statement dies in the thickness of the air that stays stagnant in the bathroom. Rachel absorbs that thought quietly, until she shifts beside Quinn and shrugs. "Well maybe that's the point." When Quinn lifts her head to eye her quizzically, Rachel adds, "If it wasn't so terrifying, then what would be the point in feeling it?"

Quinn wishes she knew. It's not until a hand brushes a ragged bit of paper towel against her cheek that she realizes that she has begun to tear up.

Rachel moves in closer, and it's like an echo of junior prom, the way she tenderly smiles and presses that paper to absorb the moisture on Quinn's cheek. "You deserve happiness, Quinn."

The door pushes open once again, but it is no stranger that catches the intimate moment.

Santana, pupils dilated and hair mussed, stares at them both, eyes moving from Quinn to Rachel, to the way they are pressed so tightly together.

"What the hell is this?"

It's hard at first, to process what exactly Santana is reacting to. They're pressed together so intimately… and Rachel understands that implication, because she backs up just a bit, eyes widening as she does so. Quinn has no strength to move. She is still so fragile, tender in the way only Rachel has really ever seen, and there isn't time for the walls to come back up. Her eyes are still teary, her mouth still trembles and maybe that's all Santana sees, because she stares wildly between them before suddenly launching forward like an attacking cat.

"What the fuck did you do to her, Berry?"

As Santana shoves herself in between them, nearly flattening Rachel against the wall with the force and playing a palm flat against her moist cheek, Quinn dizzily realizes that Santana isn't JEALOUS of the intimate moment… she's furious on her own behalf.

"What did I do to her?!" Rachel asks pointedly. She sounds incredulous.

Dark eyes seek her own with something that looks like panic. Santana's mouth is pursed, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip a little sweaty, probably from the glaring lights of the stage. Dazed from her emotion and the buzz from the alcohol that never quite went away, Quinn almost leans forward to tongue at the droplets.

"Yes, Idiot, what the hell did you do to her?!" Santana snaps. "Five minutes ago she was smiling and happy and now she's in this dingy crap room crying!"

"Five minutes ago you had your fingers in her-"

"Rachel!" she hisses, because even SHE knows where that sentence is going, and there's no need to name what was, apparently, all too obvious to everyone seated at that table.

But she has to commend Rachel: it's enough to shut Santana up. The other woman absorbs the statement, looking actually a little stupid for a second before her brain catches up and she makes the connection.

Rachel's chin lifts defiantly when Santana's jaw literally drops.

Santana's eyes lock with Quinn's, but her reaction is surprising. Well, maybe it isn't, because Santana is shameless. "Then maybe the Green Fairy should have let me finish."

Rachel's eyes nearly roll out of her head. Quinn, exhausted and somehow unable to truly think with the way Santana's hand lingers on her distractedly, can only manage a quiet, teary guffaw.

Really, all she can do is laugh.

Santana takes notice. Her touch becomes familiarly possessive as she slides her hand around Quinn's waist before reaching for a clean and dry hand towel. "Seriously, Rachel. What did you say?!"

That accusing tone is still there, like RACHEL is to blame for this, and really, how on earth is Santana somehow both so intelligent and crushingly dense at the exact same time?!

It's time she interjected herself into the conversation. "Santana, Rachel didn't do anything to me other than be a friend."

Once again, Santana stares at her searchingly, trying to unlock a puzzle of which there is no solution. "I'm your friend too, Quinn," she says, so quietly it smacks of ridiculous insecurity.

The tiny moment of vulnerability does little to ease Quinn's aching heart, and she grasps for the anger that keeps her standing. "Well you were otherwise occupied, weren't you?"

"Not by choice!"

"I'm going to go back outside." In the brief moment since she has last spoken, Rachel has actually managed to almost reach the door. It's disconcerting, how easily Quinn lost track of her. Her eyes go soft in unspoken apology to Rachel, but her friend just flashes her a surprisingly tender smile back. "I've been asked to sing Auld Lang Syne and I need to get a lemon tea to loosen up my vocal chords to do it justice. My NYADA peers can be my harshest critics so I really need to be on top of my game." As she regards them, the way Santana still holds her, the way Quinn has pressed herself into Santana's side, her smile softens. "Take care of her, Santana."

God, the way Rachel delivers that, Quinn can actually FEEL herself being transported into a forties black and white war flick dripping with gravitas and dramatics and Rachel selflessly giving her away at the altar to a mustache-twirling villain named Santiago.

She loves Rachel, but it takes actual effort to not roll her eyes.

"Rachel-" Santana begins.

Rachel expels a distinctly annoyed sigh as she whirls and stares down their mutual friend. "What, Santana?"

Santana doesn't respond at first, but when she does, it's to offer an awkwardly gentle, "Good luck following that act."

The line could be cutting but instead it comes off affectionate. This is Santana attempting to apologize for jumping to conclusions by offering to return to their normal, weirdly competitive friendship.

At the very least, that's how Rachel seems to take it. "Please," she huffs. "Like there's any competition. There was only one star of Glee Club, and you're looking at her. Prepare to get schooled, Santana Lopez."

Santana arches a brow. "Looking forward to it, Fiona." Their eyes meet, and some kind of understanding is met, before Rachel flounces out of the bathroom. The pep is back in her step, and it's nice to see.

But Rachel's exit leaves her alone with Santana, and though Santana is focused on watching Rachel leave, Quinn discovers she has no such urge. It's nice that Santana isn't looking at her. It gives Quinn freedom to linger on the perfect profile of the oddly subdued face.

The party has resumed outside, undeterred by Santana's attempts to 'slow it down'. Even through the closed door, the sounds of the bar float in easily. She hears laughter and the clink of glasses, the beat of the music that is meant to infect the party goers with euphoria.

Santana breathes in noisily, but the breath is caught in her throat when she shifts back and notices Quinn's eyes on her. "What?" Santana asks when she catches her staring.

Quinn remembers the way Santana looked on that stage, effortlessly captivating and gorgeous. "You sounded amazing up there, Santana," she admits.

And yet, somehow, it's the wrong thing to say. Santana's apprehensive expression grows cold. "How would you know? You didn't even hear it."

She noticed then… that Quinn was gone.

"I heard enough," she says thickly, eyes dropping to the tile.

There is a pregnant pause. "Did you?"

Her heart seizes in her chest. "Santana-" she begins, her voice thick and weary.

"I got a hotel room."

The statement strikes her literally stupid. "What?" is all she manages, the stubby word blurted out from her throat in a way that sounds more like a squawk than anything else.

"I just… we don't have to do anything, okay?" Santana stammers, but already, Quinn's head is swimming with images, positions… mouths- "But I swear to God if Kurt interrupts me one more time when I'm all up on you I'm going kill him and something tells me their idiotic roommate contract doesn't include a homicide clause."

She's serious. Yes, she's serious because that IS a hotel key card she has just pulled out from her cleavage, laminated with a very professional looking logo and stylish script that spells 'EVENTI'.

Whatever THIS is…Santana apparently wants it badly enough to go through the trouble of booking a hotel room. In advance.

The thought makes her dizzy. She reaches blindly behind her for support from the porcelain sink. "Santana…"

She's not sure if she's hesitant or just stuck in disbelief, but looking at Santana doesn't help at all.

Maybe the nerves are catching. The keycard in Santana's hand fumbles, and she actually scrambles to try and catch it, clutching it against her chest like she just dropped a baby.

It's so oddly vulnerable, so magnetically appealing.

"Look, it's New Year's Eve," her friend huffs after a moment, her eyes deliberately on the dirty tile. "And all I have to show for it is a contract that Rachel and Kurt want me to sign in blood."

That… is a stretch. "Blood."

"Do I look like I'm kidding? It's in fucking blood." Santana says sharply, and continues to nervously fondle her slippery keycard. Slippery because of… sweaty nervous fingers? "And I've got one more night of freedom before I'm subjected… that full time."

Quinn's frame trembles. Though she's never been as fluent in 'Santana' as she now admits she wishes she could have been, there are moments where she looks into those deep dark eyes and knows exactly what Santana is feeling. They are cut from the same mold, bitches on top crumpled in on themselves, and sometimes Quinn does wonder if that's why there is so much… love here.

"So I take it that means you've decided you're going to stay," she manages. Santana's lips press together silently. It's stupid because she's known all along that this is the best thing for Santana. Logically, Santana can't hide in her tiny little dorm room forever. She has to make a choice – she has to choose New York. She has to choose herself.

But God… there's a sadness now… an emptiness that tells her that Rachel and Brody are completely right and she's infected herself and she's IN LOVE with her. She's IN LOVE with Santana, and it's so different than being cut from the same mold and just loving her.

It's so, so different.

"Quinn." Quinn's watery eyes lift, but just as Santana makes to continue whatever it is she's going to say, a trio of girls laughingly stumble into the bathroom, nearly shoving Santana off her feet.

"Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you, Plastics?!"

"I'm so sorry!" one of them says, clearly drunk and apologetic. She immediately blinks at who she nearly ran over. "Oh my God, you are the gorgeous girl that sang that song! You were amazing!"

"Thanks," Santana answers, in a distracted, choked voice that apparently only Quinn can hear. "But if you don't mind, I'm in the middle of something with my girl here-"

Quinn swallows, sees those eyes now all directed at her. "Oh my GOD, yes!" one of them laughs, and gives them a thumbs up that looks actually creepy when paired with her lewd smile. "The performance before the performance!"

"That was so hot!" another one chirps and it's infuriating how much she wants to kill them. "Seriously, you're like the hottest lesbians here!"

"Seriously?" she sputters, and apparently that's enough. Santana reaches forward and grabs hold of Quinn's wrist, yanking to pull her through the scattering trio and out into the tiny hallway where the bathrooms are located.

It's a change of scenery, at least. Quinn finds she is grateful for the absence of mirrors. With flaming cheeks, she presses back against the wall and tells herself to suck in a deep breath.

"Quinn."

She sucks in air through her teeth, feeling her chest rise as her lungs expand with air. "What?" she asks and realizes that Santana has yet to actually let her go.

The fingers on her wrist tighten their grip, and she is tugged by Santana, manipulated gently until they're chest to chest, shoulders pressed against the wall in that tiny hallway. "Will you just LOOK at me for like, a second?"

She doesn't want to. She does anyway.

She sees a vulnerable brunette with moist brown eyes that look so small and insecure, and she's staring at her with this… face… and these eyes… and GOD why was it ever a good idea to stare at Santana like this when she's impaired by liquor?

Her lips are on Santana's before she can quite stop herself. It rips a moan from her throat that would be embarrassing in any other situation, but somehow she can't bring herself to care, not when Santana's fingers tangle in her hair, head tilting to match her vibrant enthusiasm.

She gasps at the taste of her, lids fluttering as Santana breaks the kiss with a deep breath, head titled against her temple. "Quinn, you're my homegirl," she whispers, lips ghosting against her own. "And there's a lot about this shitty year that I would want to take back, but you know what I realized this morning?"

Quinn simultaneously both cares and doesn't. She closes the distance once again, burying her mouth against Santana's, receiving a deep kiss in return before Santana once again breaks away. "Quinn just let me fucking say it."

She shakes her head desperately. She can't. She won't. There's a ticking clock above them, a man with a timer who tells her quite adamantly that whatever she has with her best friend – it's borrowed. It's part-time. It's only one more night, and she doesn't want to hear what Santana has to say because then it'll be real and there will be CONSEQUENCES and what's worse? What's worse than falling in love with this unattainable, immovable force of nature?

And God, Santana just proves her point, because even though Quinn desperately wants her to shut up, fingers that actually SMELL LIKE HER touch Quinn's face delicately and Santana whispers, "The one part I wouldn't take back is that I'm here, right now, with you."

It's not fair. It's NOT FAIR because how can she NOT fall in love?

Her eyes flutter closed, miserable in her own doubt. She feels the touch of Santana's fingers, the way they so gently press in against her cheek, flit against her skin with such careful affection it's hard to believe that it's this hand that so often strikes against her face in anger.

The tears don't seem to stop, but it's almost okay, because Santana's there to wipe each one away.

Her head tilts, until she's pressed her lips to Santana's shoulder, wrapped her arms around the slim feminine waist. They're hugging - it's so chaste compared to what they were doing before, and yet Santana holds her, keeps her steady in that little hallway.

Quinn feels the world drop away. A sharp corner against Santana's cleavage brings her back to it.

Her heart thuds tellingly. "When did you even have time to run out and book a hotel room?" Her words are shaky, barely given breath against the bare skin of Santana's shoulder.

"Don't apply logic to Lopez," she hears a trembling voice respond and her body shakes with weak laughter.

It's kind of ridiculous that it's at this exact moment that some nerd is now bouncing in front of the stage and trying to get the crowd to shout the chorus as he raps the lamest piano-bar recital of Pitbull's 'Hotel Room Service' she's ever heard. He's got a British accent, which seems to make it even MORE ridiculous.

What's even worse is that the NYADA crowd is actually really into it.

She lifts her head and offers Santana a watery smile. Santana's brow quirks adorably. "So you in?"

Because that is exactly how Santana would proposition her for New Year's sex.

Quinn can't help but love her for it. Her head tilts and she presses one more lingering kiss against Santana's seductive mouth. "Yeah," she says, the moment she pulls back. "I'm in."

* * *

"WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL! HOLIDAY INN! WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL HOLIDAY INN!"

Through the crowd, Quinn catches a glimpse of Rachel as she stands with Brody and Kurt. Her friend is giggling and laughing, shouting alongside the rest of the crowd as the British nerd on stage leads them through the song. Rachel stands with Brody and Kurt, giggling and laughing and shouting alongside the rest of the NYADA. It's so crazy hyped with the excited New Year energy that Quinn actually feels pressed in because of it. She clasps Santana's hand and lets her weave through the crowd, guiding them through the madness and toward the exit.

Santana pauses, searching for a way past the necking couple blocking their way. Quinn uses the opportunity to look toward her friends one more time.

By some miracle, she catches Rachel's eye. Rachel looks, notes the way their hands are clasped, notes the LOOK in Quinn's eyes.

Quinn knows she doesn't have to tell her they won't be there to see her sing.

But Rachel understands. All she does is smile and mouth a 'Happy New Year' to her.

Though her chest is tight, her heart soars. Quinn is tugged into moving forward by Santana, but she makes a point to glance back and wave her own good-bye to Rachel.

Rachel disappears into the crowd. All Quinn can do is look forward with Santana.

* * *

The Eventi hotel is located in Chelsea. It's a boutique hotel that smacks of newness. Quinn's fingers, tangled loosely with Santana's, twitch as her steps falter, taking in the state of it. Santana's heels clack against the speckled blood-red marble under their feet. When they pass the check in area, she notices the expensive wooden trim, topped with the cut marble trim. Men and women in pristine black uniforms offer them polite and friendly smiles, wishing them a Happy New Year.

Quinn has never considered herself wordly, but it's disconcerting how awed she feels by this. This isn't New Haven or a quaint B&B with animal rugs. This is pure New York, and it makes sense that Santana looks so at home here, moving past the crowded bar towards the swanky elevators.

A handsome guy, dark-haired and tall and exactly Quinn's usual type, catches their attention and offers up his martini in greeting. "Evening ladies," he calls out. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Santana stiffens beside her, and Quinn briefly wonders if it feels the same for Santana – to have her and not have her at the same time… to know that at any time there's a professor at Yale who will be more than happy to stick a dick in her at the first opportunity.

"Listen, ass-" she hears, but doesn't bother to wait for the rest.

She cuts her off by pulling the other woman in closer, curling her arm around Santana's waist and shaking her head in return. "No thanks," she says firmly. "We're going to have a New Year's Celebration of our own."

It's a testament to the magic of this night that Quinn feels nothing but pride at the way he looks between her and Santana, and puts it together. "Nice!" he says, and gets jostled by his friends as he sloshes his martini. "Happy New Year's, hot lesbians!"

Happy New Year, indeed.

* * *

In in a pristine hallway, off the 23rd floor, Santana Lopez inserts her keycard into room 2307. Quinn watches, her heart in a precarious place, as the lock clicks and the light flashes green, and then a slender wrists grabs hold of the handle and twists.

Santana wordlessly pushes into the dark hotel room.

Immediately that stupid song begins to blare in her mind, but the chorus quickly shuts off the second Santana flips on the lights.

It's not a big room – Santana obviously still has her mother's money, but Quinn has been impressed to know she hasn't been frivolous with it. This is a boutique hotel, so the space in this room isn't large, but the room is adequately furnished with antique looking furniture and a King-sized bed endowed with a pure white comforter and downy fluffy pillows.

Quinn's wedges sink into the carpet as she glances up and notices with a fierce blush that there is a mirror facing the bed, full-length and nearly shameless with its placement.

"What do you think?"

Quinn blinks, finds herself laughing hesitantly as she notices Santana's waiting expression – hopeful and unsure... like a kid on prom night.

It's ridiculously adorable. Quinn continues moving until she discovers the marble-tiled bathroom, and notices with surprise that it's as large as the bedroom. It has a spa-sized tub clearly built for two and one of those rain showers with dual heads.

This is a hotel room that was handmade for late nights and sex marathons.

Quinn's nose wrinkles when she notices the zebra trim on the complimentary robes.

"How did you find this place?" she breathes when Santana follows her. She leans against the doorway, content it seems, to just let Quinn explore.

"What did I say about me and Logic?" Santana's brow is arched, but the cockiness quickly fades at the look from Quinn. She crosses her arms and huffs, "I googled for it when you were out with Berry, what do you think?"

… Well.

Quinn feels her chest flutter – the arousal that simmers underneath her skin bubbles in her blood. "You that hard up to get laid, Lopez?" she teases, but her voice is husky.

Santana's eyes lock with her own. Quinn notices the visible way her throat bobs, and it gives her an amazing feeling.

She feels suddenly sexy.

"This is about me not committing a hummellcide," Santana says, as evenly as she can. "Aren't you anti-murder?"

Quinn swivels on her heels and glances at the large duel sinks, sturdy and stylish, with tiny name brand bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion. "I'm anti-having to deal with him and his weird bathroom issues."

She glances up to discover Santana smiling. "Come on," Santana says after a moment, and lifts her hand for Quinn to grab. "I want to show you something."

With a wary smile, Quinn obeys, clasping Santana's hand and allowing the woman to lead her out of the bathroom to and towards the closed curtains of the bedroom. She switches off the lights on the way. "I paid for a cityview room," Santana says, before tugging and letting New York into their room.

It's breathtaking. Quinn gasps, eyes roving over the colorful lights of the city, the red and white of the cars that move below them.

She steps forward and places her fingers gently against the glass. Hands press in against her hips causing her breath to go uneven as Santana steps up behind her, curling into her back as they take in the view together.

"Wow."

Lips press delicately against her ear, a tender and light kiss that sinks Quinn deeper into the woman that holds her. "Better than the fire escape at Rachel and Kurt's shithole, right?" Santana whispers, breath hot on her neck.

Quinn shudders. Her nerves seem alight with anticipation, because she is very, very aware of that bed, and very very aware of the way Santana's fingers press in on her abdomen, solid and warm.

Being held by her is nothing like being held by a man, and yet Quinn feels safe… cherished. Being held by Santana is almost like petting a wild tiger – deeply satisfying but also frightening, and the result is a maelstrom of emotion that only serves to heighten her awareness of Santana's fingers and her lips that ghost along her jaw.

Still, she manages to reply flippantly, "It's your shithole now, too."

Santana groans, chin dropping against her shoulder. "God, don't remind me."

They fall silent. Before them, New York twinkles invitingly.

Quinn is always thinking… but as she stands here with Santana, she suddenly realizes that for once since this has begun, she can't feel ghost of Brittany at all.

In this room, on this night, it's just her and Santana. "Santana," she breathes, and shuffles until she can tear her eyes from the view and focus instead on the beautiful face inches away from her own. "I'm glad I'm here with you."

Santana absorbs that. Her dark eyes seem almost black and Quinn wonders briefly if that old cliché about drowning in someone's gaze is actually true.

"Kiss me, Quinn."

Helpless, in love, and drugged with lust, Quinn leans in and opens her mouth hungrily against Santana's.

AN: I know, I know. But honestly it was either stop here or wait another couple days to update, and I chose the lesser of two evils. I'm going to concentrate on getting the next chapter out in the next few days to make up for it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part Eleven. But I'll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 4**

It's amazing that in a city that is filled to the brim with so many people, Quinn can still feel as if there is no one else in the world.

Even as Santana's lips move gently against hers, even as Quinn's heart beats increasingly faster, pumping blood into every part of her body with a rush that leaves her breathless and dizzy, she finds her mind contining to work, cataloging every single sense and emotion that flows through her as desperately and diligently as a court reporter.

She files away the feel of the delicate rasp of Santana's tongue, gently flicking against her swollen bottom lip. The way Santana tastes earthy and warm at first, but as each kiss gets deeper, Quinn gets just a little bit more tequila and citrus floating against her tongue. Santana has kicked off her heels sometime since they have arrived and as a result is significantly shorter than she is. Quinn is never more aware of that as she is now as they press tightly together with only the lights of the city to illuminate the dark room. It's exhilarating, and it's odd that she feels that way. Quinn used to think she preferred taller partners.

And yet there's something amazing about the fact that it's her leaning down, chin nudging against Santana's, head tilting as she manipulates the kiss with an open mouth and gentle hands. Fingers slide along Santana's cheek and dig firmly into the thick raven hair at her nape, keeping Santana close – demanding it. Air puffs out of Santana's nose, and a whimper lifts out of her throat that tells Quinn she has no complaints.

It's heated now – the languid, slow kisses that began this have progressed to a wet, searching tongue digging deep into Santana's mouth. Quinn's body has begun to move, shimmies with want against Santana's firm form, and when Santana's knuckles brush against the side of Quinn's breast on their way past her hip to press in against the small of her back, Quinn shudders. She is suddenly very aware of Santana's breasts fitted just underneath her own; Santana's thigh that has found itself between Quinn's, bouncing pressure against the core of her in such a way her knees nearly buckle.

"God," she mumbles, because it's torture – this light friction, and yet she doesn't want to give up her position just yet, not when Santana is kissing her so delicately, so intensely, not when they're pressed together SO intimately. She's ravaging Santana – she's TREASURING Santana, and at the same time she wants to fuck her. It's an animal type of possession; this sudden need to be INSIDE her, to lay claim to this body and mark it and brand it as her own. It's unlike anything she's felt before – it feels almost foreign and yet Quinn can feel the need coiling deep within her.

This is her at her most basic feral instincts, and it seems fitting somehow, that Santana is the one who brought this out.

She always seems to get a rise out of her; to blur the lines and make Quinn lose control one way or another.

The thought alone brings with it such a flush of want so overpowering Quinn feels her teeth dig sharply into Santana's plump lower lip, causing the other woman to gasp before Quinn lifts and shifts, latching onto the strong column of Santana's throat.

"Fuck – Augh- Quinn-"

Fingernails clamp hard at her bicep, dig in so deep Quinn feels the pinch of them. She pays them no heed. She's intoxicated by the taste of Santana's skin, the salty sweet combined with the stinging bitterness of her perfume, filling her nostrils with the seductive scent.

Her tongue drags against Santana before she closes her mouth against a particularly spot, sucking in harder when Santana bucks up against her.

"Quinn-"

Santana's fingers are now in her hair, tangling quickly and pulling with an insistent pressure that forces Quinn's lips to retreat and instead begin another assault on Santana's hungry and open mouth.

Santana matches her with equal intensity, and it's exhilarating. For once, Quinn has no qualms, no Alice inside of her wondering about rabbit holes and how she'll possibly dig herself out of them, no narrator shouting lyrics at her from inside her own head. Instead, all that exists is her own need, desperation and lust, that aching pressure in the pit of her stomach, her chest, and between her legs that has her nearly rutting against Santana, desperate to worship and be worshiped in return.

But those fingers dig in again and pull once again, and this time, the pain is enough to make her gasp and her eyes water. "Quinn." Hooded eyes open to meet Santana's dark stare, only centimeters away. Though her mouth still lingers breathlessly on Santana's, she is intensely aware of her beating heart and heavy panting – as if the rest of her has not gotten the message that a pause has been put in place. Her fingers continue to stroke against Santana's bare shoulders, desperate to keep contact.

"What?" she manages because Santana's fingers are firm, though the rest of her trembles in obvious emotion.

"What are we doing?"

For a moment, Quinn feels utterly stupid. Her brain is already fragmented with lust, and despite its determination to remain lucid and commit this all to memory, it leaves her with little reasoning skills. Isn't it obvious what they're doing?

This is a hotel room. Santana's dress straps are already hanging off her shoulders and though it's dark, Quinn's reasonably sure that that is a mark on Santana's neck produced by her own mouth. They're standing together intimately in a strange room and Quinn is pretty damn sure that Santana booked it with the expressed purpose of fucking her. More than once.

"Huh?" she blurts, and it's quite possibly the stupidest thing she's ever uttered in her life, but it seems fitting because Santana's question might be the dumbest she's ever asked. "What do you mean, what are we doing?"

Fingers close over her own, stilling her palm as it drifts distractedly along Santana's collarbone. The darkness in Santana's eyes seem unfathomly deep, but there is a hardness in her voice that wasn't there just a moment ago. "I mean what are we doing, Quinn." She's exasperated. " What is this?"

It's difficult not to lose patience. "It's _sex_, Santana," because obviously.

Santana looks like she's been struck. That hand that was only keeping her palm from moving now pushes it off Santana's shoulder completely, and the other girl takes nearly a full step back. Quinn instantly feels a chill of regret.

"... Is that all it is?"

God, she can't handle this. Not the expression on Santana's face: vulnerable doe eyes that shine at her through the darkness accompanied with a trembling mouth. Not the way she looks so SMALL thanks to their exaggerated height difference.

She's beautiful and fragile in a way that tears at Quinn and her lust, leaving behind those damn FEELINGS that have only intensified since their first drunken, ill-advised kiss.

She senses the danger; sees the precipice she's standing on. The way her heart contracts in terror, how her breath hitches, it all tells her that she's so close to confessing everything, and then what will become of her? "Santana," she begins, throat tight in an effort not to beg. "Don't-"

"Why not?" Santana asks, because she's a bitch and she's stubborn and she never learns when to just _stop_. "Why can't we fucking just TALK about this, Quinn?!"

"What's wrong with just sex?" she rasps, because that much at least, she's prepared to give. That much she can handle. Her heart, her mind, her body; it wants that physical manifestation of love - but only if she can mask it. If she can take what this really is and manipulate it, transform it enough to make believe it's just carnal, then once it's over, once she leaves and goes back to New Haven alone, she'll be okay.

If she can't do that, if her raw bleeding heart remains vulnerable and open, if Santana digs into this deep chasm in her chest and fills it, and cementing her place inside of her like she belongs there-

No... Quinn has lost so much in her life... there is only so much a heart can take before it will be irreparably broken.

"What's wrong with more?!"

Santana just doesn't... she doesn't GET it. "You and I can't HAVE more," she snaps, and it sounds so empty now.

"Can't or won't?"

A harsh laugh escapes from her as she turns away from Santana and her disquieting presence. "You tell me," she answers quietly, and watches as lights blink at her from a nearby building - a strobe light from a party in progress, most likely. "Tell me you didn't rent this room with the express purpose of getting IN me, Santana."

Santana doesn't respond, and Quinn's mouth quirks bitterly, because the evidence is damning. It's at least, the one truth about Santana she absolutely knows. Santana wants her body. She wants to claim it as badly as Quinn wants to be claimed.

She reaches out to run her fingers against the thick cloth of the curtain, running it along the rails back and forth. The sound it produces could be grating amidst the quiet, but instead the intrusion is almost soothing.

"If you think that's all I want from you, then you're an idiot, Quinn." Maybe the liquor isn't quite out of her system yet, because Quinn finds that answer intensely funny. "Quinn, I've only been with one other girl and I can't handle _just _sex. Not with you."

It's not funny anymore. Quinn stops playing with the curtain, but can't quite bring herself to turn around. She instead absorbs what Santana is saying in that intensely vulnerable tone, and oddly, finally seems to hear it.

It's as if a piece from a complicated puzzle has turned and finally fit itself into its slot. So much about herself and Santana in high school was superficial; each protected themselves with a false front to keep the world from seeing the soft underbelly of their worst truths. For Quinn, it was Lucy. For Santana: her sexuality.

So she lied - she overcompensated. Where Quinn was pious and cold, she was loose and free, and once told Rachel to never say no to boys that wanted her. The more boys Santana had, the less gay she could be.

Now Quinn knows better. Maybe she always knew. The Santana who emerged after she accepted the truth of her feelings for Brittany was not the loose, slutty Santana that was presented before. Santana's true nature was monogamous, protective and sweet. Santana in love was romantic and devoted, and though her very public outing had given her more than her share of internet fame and lesbian admirers, what Quinn imagined would be catnip to a newly out lesbian, Santana had always remained steadfast in her relationship.

God, just the idea that she COULD be attracted to another woman had frightened her so much she confessed it to Brittany as if that was as bad as cheating.

For all of Santana's experience with loveless sex and lust, she was just so... new.

Boys meant nothing so the sex meant nothing for Santana...but for Santana the lesbian... sex with women is not meaningless.

And here they are, and it's happening again. With her other best friend. With Quinn.

On top of that, Santana has no home, no plan, no idea of what her life will be when just two months ago she probably had every dream in the world and every single part of her life laid out before her like a blueprint: a life with Brittany, a cheerleading scholarship, a hot and cold platonic friendship with Quinn-

Every single constant in her life has changed in such a short amount of time.

Quinn's eyes water as she realizes suddenly that for Santana, there is too much shift. Too much is changing all at once and Quinn has no idea how to help her or guide her.

And she can't. She can't help her. Not when she is one of those constantly changing factors.

She feels so powerless, and she hates that feeling. Quinn has taken so many extremes in an effort to manipulate her life to her appropriate endgame and for what? She has a daughter who is being raised by another mother. A barely healed body that still keeps her up at night.

Even when it comes to love, she has prodded and pushed and threatened and the result has always been the same.

Now here she is with Santana, who stares at her as if she has every answer in the world.

She doesn't have any answers.

All she has is love. This selfless love that tells her Santana deserves to be happy.

So she smiles a trembling grin that seems to frighten Santana at first, and with a painful exhale, whispers into the night, "Whatever happens between us, Santana, you're my best friend." Santana's eyes narrow, unsure what to do with it. Quinn's watery eyes glisten, and she finds herself surprisingly bold and oddly at peace as she reaches forward to take Santana's palm in hers, caressing the fingertips with sweet affection. She takes in this feeling, revels in it as she weighs her words carefully. "I know that this is new... but maybe we're not supposed to figure it out right now - no, listen to me-" she continues, when Santana huffs in exasperated frustration and attempts to pull away. "Listen." The fingers tighten; keep Santana in place until those dark eyes look at her one more time. Quinn takes a breath, and tries again. "Are you honestly telling me that you're over Brittany?" Santana's jaw clenches. Quinn's smile trembles. "That you know exactly what you want from me?" A heavy sigh erupts from Santana. She shifts, lost in her own tumultuous emotions.

"Quinn-"

"That right here, right now - you want to be my girlfriend?"

They're hard questions she's been too terrified to ask, and honestly she has no idea why she has the bravery to ask them now. Perhaps because she knows, deep down, that Santana doesn't have the answers either.

"I just-"

She lets go of Santana's palms to press a soothing touch against her friend's chin, gentle as she lifts it so Santana can look her in the eye. She knows her eyes are shimmering in the darkness, but her smile is genuine. Santana stares at her like she's beautiful. "It's okay, Santana," she answers quietly, saving her friend from her own confusion. "There's no time limit on figuring things out. That's all I'm saying."

She knows, deep down, that what they share is intimate and deep. They've always been two-of-a-kind, two bitch-slash-goddesses on the same love-hate spectrum.

Santana's eyes flutter closed. Her forehead falls forward, gently pressing against Quinn's, as if she's gathering strength from her. "I meant what I said before," she whispers.

Quinn sucks in a harsh breath; feels her heart tremble in response. "I know. So did I."

"Quinn." Her eyes open. She lifts back just enough to see the way Santana looks at her, grateful and affectionate. "You're my best friend too." Some of the anxiety has lifted, at least, and Quinn's breath hitches at the scampy, gorgeous grin that suddenly graces Santana's features. "My really hot bestie that I really want to kiss right now. "

She says it playfully, but the emotion behind it is so sincere. Santana's lids have grown heavy; eyes obviously focused on her mouth. Santana's tongue darts along her bottom lip in anticipation. Along with the playfulness the lust has returned. Quinn finds she's infected by it too. Her hand lingers against Santana's neck, palming possessively. The skin feels warm under her touch, and she wants to feel more of it.

They're two best friends who love each other and are insanely attracted to each other. Maybe for tonight, that's enough.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she asks, but it comes out husky; a demand instead of a question.

Santana's smile quirks, fades, and with a heavy breath she leans in. Quinn's ready and eager to meet her half way when the muffled sounds of Meredith Brooks' 'Bitch' begin to blare from Santana's boobs.

Quinn blinks, thrown until she realizes that the buzzing vibration against her own nipple is actually Santana's phone hidden in Santana's cleavage, signaling an incoming call.

Santana seems to be just as confused. "What the fuck is that?" she asks, looking down between them with wide, startled eyes.

"It's your phone," Quinn says dryly, brow arching as it finally registers for Santana.

"Oh," she says, blinking for a minute, before her eyes twinkle with mischief. "Wanna get it for me, Q?"

It's a silly challenge, but Quinn's brow lifts anyway, smirk turning upward as her shoulders straighten and she boldly and without reservation curves her fingers between the clingy fabric and soft skin of Santana's cleavage to fish out the ringing mobile.

Santana's eyes darken, her mouth opens at the flutter of movement and with a sound that sounds like devastatingly sexy growl, she lunges forward. Quinn has discovered she's in a teasing mood, and she leans back just far enough away to avoid the tempting, plumps lips, to observe the caller instead.

"It's Kurt," she says, laughing at the way Santana whines like a puppy deprived of a treat. "Should I get it?"

"Oh, fuck Kurt-" Santana begins, palms already around her waist and mouth ghosting along her jaw, pulling insistently just as a pop from outside their window startles them both.

A splash of color illuminates the night sky, and it's then that Quinn with an indrawn gasp realizes what's happening. "Santana, it's midnight."

Santana's fingers twitch against Quinn's hip, keeping her close, but she watches the distant fireworks as they pop with fantastic brilliance. She seems dazed by their beauty. Quinn finds she's more absorbed by the wonder on Santana's face.

Santana's phone buzzes in her hand, and Quinn goes with her instinct and answers the call, clicking on the speaker option.

"Happy New Year!" She can barely make out Kurt's loud upper register because of all the noise of cheering and shouting in the background.

Santana's eyes finally tear from the display outside the window to eye the phone amusedly. "Happy New Year, Lady Hummel," she drawls, and then frowns when Kurt immediately shushes her.

"Rachel wanted you two to hear this," he says, and then by some miracle the background noise quiets suddenly.

No, it's not a miracle, Quinn realizes with an indrawn breath. It's Rachel singing 'Auld Lang Syne', with her perfect pitch and vibrato. Even through the tinny phone speaker, her voice proves magnetic and joyous. It's not long before the crowd at Callbacks has joined in, and still, Rachel's voice rises above them all.

Rachel once mentioned to Quinn that Santana told her she liked it when she sang, and looking at her friend now, Quinn wonders how she ever thought differently. Santana's eyes are shining, and she's listening with such intensity and joy, it appears almost the picture of rapture.

It's oddly heartwarming, to see Santana affected so easily by the power of Rachel's voice.

The little window above the call on Santana's phone says it's 12:01AM.

The song's ending is drowned out by the cheers that follow it, and Quinn takes it as her cue to disconnect the call.

Santana seems put out by the action. "Quinn-"

But Quinn is overwhelmed with emotion and affection, and she's done waiting. She kisses Santana, lips pressing softly against her mouth, lingering with an exhalation of pleasure that makes Santana hum along with her. Instantly her heart stutters with excitement, her body hums as if it's been shocked. Still, Quinn feels almost lazy as she explores Santana's mouth with a tempered passion that seems more profound and restrained than any kiss that has occurred between them. She continues her unhurried, exploratory assault, nipping lightly at Santana's swollen lips and running her teeth teasingly over Santana's perfect teeth.

One long moment later, she pulls away, just enough to study the beautiful face across from her own, to truly absorb this moment.

This is real. This is happening. If nothing else, they will have always have this moment.

"Happy New Years, Santana," she whispers, breath ghosting against those lips that then pillow immediately into her own. Santana murmurs those words back at her, but they lose their meaning when their mouths open hungrily against each other.

She's not sure how long they keep up the deep, searching kisses. She does know that her thighs have begun to tremble and that she's so wet it's almost distracting. She's so aware of it that she finds it hard to focus on almost anything else.

It's not until her back presses up suddenly against cold glass that she discovers they have been making their way to the window. Santana's fingers have lost any hesitation. She's spread them open to palms Quinn's hips and waist with unbridled enthusiasm, gripping her tightly to gather fistfuls of material, tugging and pulling. It as if Santana can't decide whether she should continue the journey up or down.

Quinn doesn't know where she wants her more.

For her part, Quinn discovers herself handicapped. Though one hand is once again digging into Santana's raven locks, she still holds Santana's phone in her other hand. She's flushed now, and still somehow half-afraid she's going to drop the phone and break it. Already, Santana's smooth hands have yanked harder at her dress and managed to reach into her cleavage, flicking fingers against a sensitive nipple with such unbridled enthusiasm Quinn yelps and shudders, clawing at Santana's neck and nearly knocking her own phone against her friend's head.

She flails for a moment before she gives up and tosses her arm over Santana's shoulder, using her forearm to yank Santana in closer, crushing her mouth against Santana's lips.

Santana uses both palms to go around Quinn's waist, tongue sinking deep into Quinn's mouth as she fudges with Quinn's zipper.

Quinn feels wanton, out of control. There's enough of that Christian girl inside of her that abstractly looks on with horror as she shifts to help, lifting away from the glass to give Santana the room she needs to loosen the dress around her shoulders. She's giving herself so freely – no pulling away, no boundaries. Her legs are spread and Santana's pumping her hips between them, grinding into her with such enthusiasm Quinn finds herself uttering a steady stream of moans.

It's this lust, this desperate need, that keeps her from being her usual self-conscious self. She doesn't care about the stretch marks that skim against her breasts, or how her arms feel less than toned, or the way her nipples always seemed too big for her own comfort.

All she cares about is the look on Santana's face when she sees them, gasping so loudly it's impossible to ignore. "Fuck, Quinn," she hears, and then Santana roughly palms a nipple, plucking at it and nearly mauling the breast. "Where the hell have you been hiding these?"

"Ass," she laughs, but it's an empty word when her hips buck, seeking the friction of Santana's waist and her chest arches wantonly into Santana's hand. The cold of the glass is a striking contrast to the heat of Santana pressed so tightly against her but Quinn finds she doesn't mind either. It's only with dim awareness that she even registers that the fireworks are still happening, and it seems impossible to care about that manufactured beauty when her neck and collarbone are currently being laved with wet kisses and a hot tongue. Santana takes her time. The dress has pooled along her waist, she's half naked and she can only deal with the frigid class because of the heat of Santana's mouth, sucking and nipping down her chest to drag her teeth along her right breast.

When the phone buzzes once again, Quinn nearly drops it in her surprise. She jerks her head back and momentarily sees stars when she bangs hard against the glass of the window.

"Quinn!"

It'd be seriously funny if she wasn't so annoyed with the interruption. "Your damn phone," she gasps and clutches at it awkwardly as she tilts it against Santana's shoulder to read the caller. "Probably Kurt and Rachel again-"

"Tell them to fuck off. We're not in their bathroom."

She's actually quite prepared to tell them just that when she looks at the blinking name of the incoming caller.

It's not Kurt or Rachel.

"Quinn. Are you okay?"

The cold that seeps into her bare back and shoulders from the glass now seems to overtake her completely.

Her heartbeat slows. Her head rings.

It's with valiant effort that she turns the phone and shows the caller to Santana.

Santana's expression is hooded and hard to read. The phone continues to buzz, and Quinn doesn't know what to do, sitting there with a phone that's ringing with a call for Santana.

"You should answer it," she says with a quiet, tortured rasp, because it means something that Brittany is calling at midnight on New Year's Eve. It'll mean something to Santana. And she'll keep quiet when Santana does answer the call, because she knows that Brittany is probably unaware of where Santana is spending her New Years, and even if she were, chances are she would not suspect they were together alone, with Quinn half naked and arching underneath Santana's mouth.

Santana doesn't move. She looks as frozen as the wall of glass at Quinn's back.

Once again, she's lost as to what to do, torn between her heart and her lust.

Quinn sucks in a soldiering breath, and though she feels stupid standing there with her breasts on display and her lips swollen, her hair mussed, she draws her arm back over Santana's shoulder and prepares to connect the call.

This is how their evening will end, and Quinn will hate it, but she promised to be Santana's friend, and she knows she loves her.

She reaches with her thumb, and discovers with a rush of pain that Santana has now ripped the phone out of her palm with a viciousness that startles her.

Quinn swallows hard, but doesn't say a word.

Santana never looks at the phone. She just stares at Quinn, that same frozen lost girl.

Suddenly, a different button is pressed and the phone goes silent.

Brittany's call is ignored, and Santana's phone is tossed onto a nearby sofa.

Dizzy, out of breath and cold, Quinn doesn't know what's happened. This time it's her that offers the silent, questioning gaze, eyes flickering from the dark sofa to the blazing fury in Santana's eyes.

Santana answers her with a shrug that seems so loaded despite the simplicity of the movement. "Tonight is about us, Quinn."

Then her lips are on Quinn's again, her arms wrap around her shoulders, and Quinn is being kissed with a fervent passion that cements Santana's words.

Brittany's call changes the momentum. The lazy exploration, the sweet lovemaking – it's overwhelmed, like a match that has been lit and burned away. Santana's lovemaking is rough and dominating. She opens her mouth over Quinn's breasts and sucks her nipple into her mouth almost harshly. Quinn cries out, feels the pleasure as fiercely as she would feel any sort of pain, and it makes her a slave to it. She begins to claw with her own fingers, dragging the straps of Santana's dress further down her body until it's pushed past her hips and Santana's kicking it awkwardly past her feet.

There's so much skin to explore, but Quinn discovers she can do nothing but whimper. There's been weeks of wanting, of desire and foreplay and FINALLY now there's nothing between them – no bathrooms and Kurt or roommates or Brittany or even their own doubts.

Quinn can't wait anymore. She shoves at her own dress, feeling it slide down her legs and nearly trips on her wedges as she leans forward to capture Santana's lips once more.

She feels almost possessed as she reaches up to grab hold of Santana's palm and drags it from her breast, down her trembling stomach and beneath her thong.

"AUGH," she hears, and nearly sobs at the same time because FINALLY, Santana's there, sinking between her soaked lips to trip over her clit, circling it slowly. "Fuck Quinn," Santana whispers, so lost in the movement she's stopped kissing her and instead just pants against her mouth. Santana fingers slide through her wetness, causing her hips to convulse and Quinn's hands to flail, searching for purchase as Santana explores her.

It's not enough. Quinn needs more. She's tired of the teasing. "Santana," she whimpers and doesn't care if it comes off as desperate. She pulls at her own thong, jerking it past her thighs, struggling until Santana helps her, until she's naked but for her wedges, splayed against the window with Santana pressed up against her, hand between her spread legs, feeling Quinn buck into her. "Fuck. Me," Quinn manages, because it's what she needs. She wants Santana inside her. She wants this to be REAL.

No more teasing. No more wishing. She wants carnal and raw and pleasure and pain.

"Quinn, fuck-"

Her fingers slip, slide almost too easily inside of Quinn. Quinn feels the invasion, nearly sobs with the relief of it. Santana's tongue coaxes her mouth open, and Quinn sucks on it gladly, hips pumping wildly to keep Santana inside of her, keep her pumping.

There's more – Santana's added another finger – it feels fucking amazing.

She's taken against the window by her best friend, with her heart pumping so furiously she's sure she may die from a heart attack before the coil that builds tightens to the point of release. But God, it would be worth it. It would be WORTH IT.

She feels herself clench – even in lovemaking she's selfish, wanting to keep Santana's fingers inside of her, despite how GOOD it feels when she pumps in and slides out, mashing her palm against Quinn's clit with every thrust.

"Please don't stop," she pleads and Santana grunts 'Never' in response and it makes her eyes water because that's exactly what she wants.

Her orgasm hits her before she's ready and in her head all she hears is 'Forever' and 'Never' and it all mashes together until the words lose all meaning and all that's left is Santana and this feeling.

* * *

_AN: Thank you to everyone for continuing to read, comment and send me those lovely messages. Also, thanks for your patience! I owe a couple updates on a couple other stories, but I'll do my best to come back with another update soon. _


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